Ghosts That Fade
by The Scarlet Sky
Summary: He'd always stolen before. Yet this was not an act of theft, but of revenge, building a web of lies with the power to corrupt more than a sinner's intended victim. Even, in fact, a child. DS Cute/Magical Melody long-fic. Skye x Claire x Doctor. Complete.
1. Chapter 1: Spirited Away

**Note: **I am not lying when I say this is my most ambitious fic yet. It will, undoubtedly, be the longest I have ever dared to undertake, and the most complex. I'm going to have to do some more research as it goes on as well. And, to add to its differences, it's not only in third person, but it is a cross-over of sorts. If you read this fic and review it, I will love you forever, because it's absolutely consuming me, and I'm using NaNoWriMo on it to keep me going. The funny thing is, I think it'll break fifty thousand words. o.O

**Also**: While there is no requirement that you have Magical Melody, I strongly suggest you have played a game involving Forget-me-Not (perferably DS Cute) to keep up.

Disclaimer: Harvest Moon is not mine. Still.

**Ghosts That Fade**

_**Chapter One**__: Spirited Away_

"Fair maiden, I shall steal your heart this very night."

He always warned his victims; it never seemed fair to steal away their possessions without giving them a chance to react. After all, he had the advantage: cat-like reflexes, experience, an all-consuming desire that refused to let him back down. At the very least, Skye owed them a chance.

Even a slim one.

He darted between the trees—a snake, a sliver of movement betrayed only by the shining of his silver hair in the moonlight. He couldn't speak even if he wished, for his heart beat so desperately in his throat, it was all he could do to breathe. He _wanted_ this. He _needed_ this. The lust for larceny pounded in his very blood.

Even after all this time, after all these robberies, no one in Forget-Me-Not bothered to lock their doors. _She_ never did, of that he's certain. Always the fool, she never believed he could overtake her when she was armed with her hoe, her sickle, her fists. She'd been a challenge, and he'd savored each and every encounter with her flashing blue eyes.

"_Do what you want, Skye; you can't take me."_

Oh, but she'd been hypnotized, hadn't she? Hypnotized just as anyone else under his stare. The first time he'd taken a necklace from about her bare throat, she'd seethed at him, eyes smoldering with alarm and fury. She couldn't move to strike him, though Goddess knew she'd wanted to rip him apart. It had never been fear that motivated her, and maybe that's why he'd kept at her, centering in on this young woman above all others.

"_Fair maiden, if not I, then who will?"_

He had made many stops at the dingy farm that year—a place where any thief would have turned up his nose, scoffed that anything there could possibly be of value. Yet Skye looked deeper. The curry he stole, the produce he pilfered, the trinkets he swiped: they were not his true prizes. It had been the _time_ of this indignant woman he'd stolen—time that she'd never get back from him.

"_And what makes you think I'd want someone like you? A thief?"_

Goddess, she was lovely; she always had been. She had not the physical attraction of Muffy, nor the naiveté of Celia, nor the cold stare of Nami's eyes; Lumina was too sophisticated to glance his way, and Flora too dedicated in her work. Oh, but this girl—this _Claire_—pulled the strings of his heart so taut they might snap. There was something so terribly entrancing about her persistence, her smirk, her constant will to try stopping him even when she knew she could not. She never cried for help, never called him out—wasn't that strange enough to merit his attention?

"_Decide, then, my cherished one."_

His fingers had laced themselves between her golden locks of hair, and her sapphire eyes widened as he stole the protest from her ruby red lips. Her soft skin was smooth pearl to the touch; his hands roamed, and though he knew she could have stopped him, she did not. He, too, had not missed the other signs those past months: the blush that crept onto her proud features, the awkward smile that she always fought to keep down when he won—once again—in their game of cat-and-mouse. Skye had known what he'd been stealing all along, and that night, he would have sworn that he finally held his prize in his arms.

"_You…you…I should slap you, Skye. I really should. But for some stupid reason, I…damn you, I can't."_

'_Because I love you_,' he could almost hear her finish as she returned the favor and pressed her mouth harder against his.

Oh, but that had been a year ago, hadn't it? A whole year that was naught but a string of memories now.

Yet still, _still_, her door would be open.

Faster, faster. Skye leapt over the field swiftly, deftly, and landed by the window, his eyes narrowed in on his reflection. He looked past his cold blue eyes to the figure sleeping within, her back to him and her hair sprawled on her pillow in slumber. Then he caught sight of the lump beside her, that dark figure whose arm hung about her waist in possession. Something burned in his throat, and he swallowed the jealousy as best as he could as he crouched down once more.

"_A blue feather? You would give your heart to someone besides me?"_

He knelt at the door, and he turned the knob so slowly, oh, so slowly that the door wouldn't dare squeak. Like a shadow he slid through its crack, and the moonlight followed him relentlessly through the doorway. Half of his body laid coated with its milky light: two-faced, black and white. Her body turned in the bed slightly, and Skye froze, his breath locked as he waited for her to remain motionless once more.

Strange, wasn't it, that once he'd prayed that she'd awaken at his arrival and meet his gaze?

"_It meant nothing, Skye. I can't be with someone like you. You know that. I need…dependency, responsibility, honesty. You're not the marrying type. I could never marry you."_

Once again she let slumber overtake her, and Skye turned himself just enough to see the container of his jewel, his treasure forbidden above all others. _Don't you dare_, he could already hear her scream, _you monster, you monster, you heartless devil! _But if he were heartless, he wouldn't be doing this. If he hadn't possessed a heart to be broken, he wouldn't _dare_ to sin so mortally that he could already see hell's fires waiting to swallow him whole.

"_You'll see, Claire. I've already stolen your heart. I'll steal it once more, to prove it, if I have to. If I can't have you, who deserves that right?"_

"Don't wake up," he mouthed as he crept forward, "don't wake up, don't wake up." He couldn't afford to use his voice; he couldn't dare to be caught, not this time. This time, he wouldn't relish their cries, their futile attempts at stopping him, their efforts at arrest. He'd been harmless, then.

Tonight, all that would change.

"_The doctor loves me. He loves me, and he doesn't steal; he doesn't cheat; he doesn't lie. Being hurt isn't the same thing as being loved, Skye. So steal the feather if you want to, fine, but I'll marry him just the same. I owe you nothing."_

Nothing, she'd said. She'd thought Skye the Phantom Thief could abandon a burglary simply because of her proud words. She'd assumed, stupidly, that she had a power over him, when _he_ was the one who paralyzed others. She'd made her choice, one year ago.

Now he'd come to collect her consequences.

The first sight that met his eyes was a startling shade of blue, the very shade of a feather's plumes. In them he could see his own reflection: terrified, delirious, unable to control his emotions as well as he could his poise. "Don't speak," he willed once more. "Don't open your mouth. Don't stop me."

And Claire's baby girl nodded at him, thinking this was all a dream as the phantom flew through the woods, spiriting away the child he knew should have been his all along.


	2. Chapter 2: Haste

**Note: **I'm simply stunned. And that's putting it mildly. I expected, what, five reviews for this strange obscure fic about kidnapping, and I got fifteen. Frickin' _fifteen_. Guys, I don't know what I did to deserve that, but I owe you all a huge thank-you—including you silent readers! I can only hope I fulfill your expectations to the best of my humble abilities.

_**Chapter Two**__: Haste_

There were no words in the English language that could comprehend the pain that echoed through Claire's single, horrified scream as the dawn crept in through the farm's windows. Her husband watched her silently, let her crumple into his arms as she shook her head and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I—I don't believe it," Claire gasped, pleading. "Why would anyone steal a baby girl? What kind of son of a bitch would do this to my baby?"

In the beginning, the doctor's wife had been calm, numb, incredulous. She'd asked if her husband had taken the baby out for a walk. If someone had let her out of the crib. If Trent had simply changed her diaper and then let her down without thinking in the middle of the night.

No, no, no were her only answers. So they'd searched.

The field. The shed. The storage room. The newly-built kitchen. Claire tore them all apart in her desperation, repeating her baby's name over and over. "Willow? Willow?! _Baby_?!" Trent methodically kept on looking, reassuring her that they hadn't looked outside of the farm yet, that she was probably napping somewhere, just waiting. That, at least, was easier than falling prey to the same terror that had roped itself about his wife's throat like a noose.

"Everyone in town will be looking," Mayor Thomas announced, bringing word to all the other citizens of the valley. "She'll be back by nightfall, we promise."

It was long before moonrise that Claire learned the situation lay entirely out of her hands. Too late did she find the note tacked upon her door: "_Fair maiden, I shall steal your heart this very night._"

The first time, she had heeded his warning. This time, as that sob broke free from her throat, she knew she was far, far too late.

* * *

Babies, Skye decided, needed to steal as much as anyone.

Before, when he'd traveled alone, Skye had learned to go hours in silence, days in stealth, weeks in solitude. Yet barely five hours had passed before Claire's baby girl opened her mouth and screamed, hands flailing as her face burned red in hunger.

"Quiet, my sweet," the thief hissed into her ear. "Don't speak, please, not now. Wait until morning, _please_."

But she would _not_ wait, and Skye paused to glance about his surroundings, hoping and praying for some miracle. Grassy land was all the eye could see in this place: green upon green, occasionally broken up by a ribbon of blue water. If he hadn't this child to carry, Skye knew he could just climb to the top of a nearby tree and survey the land. Perhaps there would be the friendly roof of a nearby Inn, or a convenience store, or a train station in sight.

Damn, he was never good at improvisation.

He jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled page of yellowed paper; it had been a map, once. The baby kept reaching for it, and Skye kept fighting to keep her tiny fingers at bay, all the while contemplating the ethics of using his hypnotic abilities on such a small child.

"Okay," Skye sighed, Claire's baby staring up at him with wide eager eyes, "if we go north, then turn a left here, we should get to a new town. Isn't that fitting, Princess? A land far, far away for a pretty little princess like you. Like a fairy tale." She smiled at him with all the sincerity of the world, sucking on his finger gently to ease her stomach's groans. It took all Skye's willpower to convince himself to pull it away from her mouth.

She'd cried, and cried, and cried, but eventually the child's fragile body gave out as she collapsed in his arms, taxed by her emotion. "Wish I could sleep, too, beautiful," Skye chuckled to himself softly. Had he ever _truly_ studied a baby's eyelashes before, he wondered as the baby's eyes fluttered ever so slightly in his escape. The _baby_, he kept calling her. He didn't even know her name. Claire hadn't even given him that much, had she?

Now she owed him nothing. Now they were even.

By the time the rain had fallen, Skye had found his objective: Jamie Ranch. According to his faded map, it lay at the foot of a mountain: a well-kept little plot of land with a reputation as squeaky clean as Claire's wedding dress had been. Skye scoffed as the image danced in his mind, and shook his head.

Her fault. This stupid adventure was _her_ fault.

Skye's charge began to whine more, the raindrops pelting her pale white face. He snuggled her close to his bosom and cautiously lifted one leg over the fence, then the other, before entering the tiny farmhouse door.

_Yet another fool_, Skye smiled to himself, _leaving a door unlocked_.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd tempted fate.

* * *

"No, his eyes are colder, Cody. A sharper blue, not so soft."

Claire's eyes bored into the canvas as the artist hulking before her nodded and brought his brush once again to the palette. The face before her was just a husk of the full-fleshed demon that haunted her daydreams, and Claire's grip tightened about her husband's palm.

This had been Trent's idea, after all—the wanted signs. "It's that thieving bastard," Claire had exclaimed that night. "Oh, God, I'll kill him. If he so much as touches one hair on her head, I'll…I'll…!"

She'd cried. Of course she'd cried; Doctor Trent didn't expect anything different. She'd remained in his embrace all night long, his arms the perfect mold for her grief-racked body. "Twenty-four _hours_," Claire had moaned. "It's been twenty-four _hours _and they're still searching around here, when I know he's taken her! Dammit, why doesn't someone do something? _Anything_?"

So he, being a man of medicine and not of words, had simply nodded and let her cry until there were no more tears, murmuring only, "We'll find her. We'll search this entire world if we have to, Claire. We'll find her." He didn't know if he meant those words. He didn't know if the world could be that small. He just wanted, valiantly, to save some remnant of the woman he'd held the night before.

That morning, he'd called Cody.

"His smile is all wrong," Claire critiqued once more, brow furrowing. "See, you've made him look too innocent, too childlike. It's a mocking grin, you know? The kind of smile you give someone in Poker when you're about to win it all. Selfish."

The man grunted in reply, and Doctor Trent looked at the portrait of Skye the Phantom Thief dully. Claire kept on pointing, kept on arguing about miniscule details, but Trent cocked his head once more in thought. "He looks the same," he accidentally said aloud, and his wife swerved towards him, livid.

"What do _you_ know, Trent? How can you say that—just look, look at him! That's not a kidnapper. That's a boy. Do you want our Willow back or not?" Claire hissed. He nodded slowly, her nails now daggers in his palm. "Good. Then don't settle for anything less than perfect." Her eyes remained fixed upon Cody's work, as she announced, "There! Finally."

She stood up, letting her hand slip from Trent's grasp as she raised a finger to levitate over Skye's painted neck. It looked so pale, so vulnerable, on this portrait—so easily reached. Claire closed her eyes and remembered the warm pulse in the shadow of his neck, how her arms had once wrapped themselves there so roughly, so unnaturally. He'd been in her _fingers_, and she'd thought nothing of it but her body's desire.

"Oh, God," Claire whispered to herself, the memory dangling before her tauntingly. "If I could only see you now, Skye, you would not be so lucky. If I had my way, you son of a bitch, I'd strangle you until you had an _inkling_ of how it feels to lose your very life. Because that's what you've done to me, you bastard. You _bastard_!"

Choking on tears—was she sad? No, no, Claire could have sworn she was furious just moments ago—she bit her lip to bottle this tidal wave of emotion: a cauldron bubbling with fury, sorrow, guilt, agony, terror. Too much for her mortal body to bear, far too much, as it bent her, twisting her face into a silent scream. With the world so confused, the colors so blended by grief, the man grinning at her in acrylic appeared almost real, almost alive. A child's laughter echoed in her ears, and Claire bit down harder, tasting blood: the wine of misery mixed with tears. "Oh, God. Oh, God, my _baby_. Oh, God."

A pair of arms cautiously caught her, an awkward offering of compassion. "Dearest?" Trent whispered. "Maybe…maybe we should take you home. The paint, it has to dry."

Her hands—they trembled, her fists slowly unraveling into empty, needing palms. "I—I know," Claire insisted, her voice softer. "Of course. I know. The paint."

His arms released her, but no force in the world could've moved Claire now, as she murmured, "So…we'll be painting Willow, now?"

With that reassuring nod, Claire took her leave, and let her husband describe a face she knew all too well.

* * *

"I'm not sure if I'm doing this right, love," Skye warned. Claire's baby watched him from the hay as his hands clumsily reached for the cows' utters, yanking them so that milk would squirt into the metal bottle below. Claire had always made it look so easy; of course Skye could do this. He was the Phantom Thief. Of course he could.

The first blow made him cry, the heifer's hoof slamming into his chest with an angry moo. "For Goddess's _sake_!" Skye snarled. "What are you, an animal or a murderer?"

_And what am I, a thief or a kidnapper? _

Why was it, now, that those terms seemed mutually exclusive?

Skye the Phantom Kidnapper. The thief bristled at the thought; no, there was no flair in this name, no honor. Those who injured children were at the lowest of the crime ladder, weren't they? He'd heard stories—jarring, bloodcurdling stories—of the treatment of molesters in prison, of child killers. Claire's baby let out a whine again, and Skye flinched involuntarily.

"This isn't cruelty," he forced out through gritted teeth. "This is equality. This is…justice."

So he braved the cow's hooves once again, all to feed a baby girl the milk he'd stolen her away from all the way back in Forget-Me-Not.

* * *

"If you want to ask me how I am, don't." Huddled in a mass of blankets, Claire hardly lifted her head up from her cocoon as her husband entered the bedroom silently. She retreated deeper within herself, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath to calm her trembling body. "Trent, don't. Please."

"Cody didn't say a word about it," the doctor told her instead as he started towards the kitchen. His hands fumbled about for a bowl of soup, and his wife watched him blankly from her corner. "Chicken noodle or vegetable?" he asked solicitously.

Claire almost laughed. "You think it matters?"

"Vegetable, then."

Methodically he stirred the mixture, and Claire pursed her lips as he chopped up the carrots, sliced the tomatoes, and pulled out some potatoes to cut before tossing them into the brew. The doctor had learned, long ago, that silence could be a stronger force than any words, so when his wife opened her mouth to speak, Trent couldn't say he was surprised to hear her voice.

"I'm sorry, about today." She ducked her head, eyes shrouded by a curtain of gold. "I—I'm not usually like that. Uncontrolled, I mean." The blonde let her finger slide up and down the smooth surface of her pillow, and shook her head. "It was inexcusable, my behavior. It…it wasn't me."

"I know." The knife continued to slap against the cutting board, _thump thump thump_. A steady heartbeat.

Claire turned away again, nodding. "I'm not that emotional, you know? I'm very organized, Trent, very methodical. People like me don't act like that. People like _us_. I'm just…just…"

"Overwhelmed," Trent finished, putting the pot to boil. "Of course you are. Who wouldn't be?"

Even after all this, he could still finish her sentences. Somehow that was comforting, and Claire let out a tiny pent-up breath at that small gesture of ordinariness. "Trent…darling…do you think she's alright?"

"Willow?" He paused, ever the doctor, and contemplated his answer before speaking. "Skye wouldn't hurt her, I'm almost certain."

"Almost." Claire smiled weakly. "Yeah. Me, too. It's not good enough, though, is it?"

Dinner simmered, but each preferred the company of each other's arms to the comfort any meal had to give.

* * *

To be a thief was to be an observer.

For the past two days, Skye's blue eyes had followed the grumpy farmer's form; his fedora bobbed over the fenceposts, and that shocking shade of purple hair could be seen for miles. Not until the farmer lay sleeping in his bed did Skye dare to leave the baby in the care of cows and sheep, slinking into the shadows of the village until he, too, was nothing but darkness.

If he'd had more options, Skye knew, he'd never dare leave Claire's baby alone—but oh, that farmer lived in his precious routine, and the animals weren't to be seen until morning. Skye had made certain of it. It hadn't been terribly difficult to escape notice, not really. As far as Skye could see, this Jamie's only exclamations had been about how his cows refused to give as much milk, and _that_ the fool had attributed to their food. Not to the two visitors who'd be buried in the hay as he entered, breath held by one and the other taking her morning nap.

He had a couple hours, give or take a few. And Goddess help him, Skye was about to collapse from starvation.

The aroma gave him a path as clear as any map could, his hunger a compass to the tiny building. To be sure, Skye knew this little village—Flowerbud, wasn't it?—had quite a few cozy little cafes, but oh, that smell, that tantalizing scent, could be nothing short of curry.

God, what he wouldn't give for some curry right now.

A hurriedly scrawled **CLOSED** sign hung on the Inn's doorknob, and Skye couldn't help it; he smiled. Nothing better than an empty kitchen to rob. In his precise way, Skye reached for the window and lifted the pane soundlessly, light from the room pouring towards him. His mouth watered as the smell followed behind it.

Curry. Pure, sweet, untainted curry.

Skye had no time to spare; slinking to the ground, he crawled on all fours like a cat, unwilling to be seen from a chance visitor from behind the counter. Before, he could afford such notice. Now, for all he knew, he could be on every news channel on the continent. Subtlety was a must.

The dish sat there patiently as he lifted a single hand to pull it towards him and stuff his face full—oh, food, food, blessed food—when the impossible happened.

"Drop it."

Skye the Phantom Thief had been caught.

The broom handle lay flat against his neck as the woman's voice snapped again, "Drop the food, and stay right where you are, you thief. Now who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"


	3. Chapter 3: Welcome

**Note: **I'd like to thank all my awesome, awesome, awesome reviewers, and say that I'm quite interested on your opinions of the characters so far. Skye is popular, isn't he? And Trent…poor Trent, he's got no love from y'all! Shame on you. xD Kidding. Mostly. But I love all the characters in this fic, and I've been running it by a friend who's outside of ff (you know, to save it from NaNo speeding –sigh-) and it's funny, because she loves Trent and Claire the most in it. But she's read ahead, so eh. Anyway. Shutting up.

**Another Note:** To those of you who have not played Magical Melody: this transition will be as painless as possible. Any vagueness, let me know, and I'll clarify. :D

_**Chapter Three: **__Welcome_

_Don't admit you're scared. Keep the status quo, Gwen, keep him just where he is._

The blonde's chest heaved up and down with short terrified breaths, but her eyes were hard, accusing. "Well? What are you doing here?" she snapped again, nudging the intruder with the broom. "C'mon, dammit, I want answers out of you!"

"Calm down, beautiful. I'm not going to do anything."

A shaft of moonlight hit him just enough to reveal his piercing blue eyes and the remarkable shade of his hair—the color of moonbeams. There was a decided air to his movement as he eased himself upright; his arms were held high in arrest, but his face was remarkably cool and collected. "D-don't you talk to me like that!" the girl demanded. "You—you crook!"

"I don't think I've stolen anything of yours, pretty miss," he replied easily.

"You were about to, though. Don't think I didn't see you."

"Well." He shrugged. "I didn't. No harm done."

Where on earth was that uncle of hers when she needed him—? Oh, that's right: he'd chosen tonight, of all nights, to spend with Duke at the Moonlight Café. Wonderful, leaving a vulnerable and pretty young niece all alone in this Inn. Great. Gwen swore she wouldn't have heard of such a thing in the city.

_And thieves aren't heard of in tiny villages._

"Who are you?" Gwen tried instead. "Tell me, or I'll clock you in the head, you creep. I won't hesitate."

"Am I fighting back?" he stated flatly. Sighing, the stranger's eyes centered in on the food Gwen had left on the table mere minutes before; the kitchen had been an empty place then, kind of chilly, and she'd just wanted a midnight snack for some comfort. Or, at least, the comforting aroma of one. "I just smelled this curry. I came to see if I could have any."

"You mean you broke in, crawled on all fours, and tried to steal it?"

"What can I say? I was hungry."

Gwen didn't know why, but she was disappointed by this answer. Stealing curry? What kind of thief bothered with stealing curry? Unconsciously, the handle lowered in her hands, and she studied the man further.

For what it was worth, he wasn't hard on the eyes. A little sullen, maybe, and there was a good chance he'd been a dreadful flirt, too, once, but right now he seemed harmless enough. _Seemed_, Gwen repeated inwardly to herself. _Looks are deceiving._

"You never said who you were," she reminded him. "Why are you here in Flowerbud, anyway? I've never seen you before."

"My name?" Something clouded his gaze—just for a moment—and Gwen's ruby eyes tried to pick out what exactly made his reply so reluctant. Guilt? Regret? Mischief? "Call me Steiner. And may I ask, lovely maiden, what your name might be?"

"None of your business," Gwen retorted. "What, don't you think I know better than that? You, a stranger, prowling about in the dead of night in a girl's home while she's alone?"

"I wanted curry, and you know my name now. We're not strangers." He chuckled. "At least, we wouldn't be, if you just told me your name."

What the hell? She had him cornered, with a broom, and he was _flirting_ with her? After trying to steal curry, of all things? "You…what _am_ I going to do about you?" she groaned. "When my uncle gets here, thief—!"

"Steiner. I told you my name; use it." Seeming bored, 'Steiner' sat himself down at her counter and, to Gwen's disbelief, poked the curry with her fork. "Mind if I take a bite? I haven't eaten in days."

"What? Not enough restaurants around for you to rob?"

His eyes narrowed, and this handsome stranger crossed his arms before saying, "If you must know, my wife has left me, and now I'm trying to find a place to stay with my baby girl. So, no, I've just been traveling a very long way on foot, with very heavy, very precious cargo."

"Your…baby?"

"Yes. My baby daughter. If you don't believe me, I'll gladly carry her over to prove it."

The broom fell from Gwen's hands. _Oh, God. _She blushed, his expression patient and calm, while hers was blood red. "Um… Want anything besides the curry, then? We've got some warm milk, i-if the baby wants it."

Skye smiled. _Like taking candy from a baby_.

* * *

Villagers were all the same: trusting, sentimental, cooking fools. Oh, to be sure, when that cook had caught him, Skye could've just used his chick-beam on her innocent feminine charms. But he couldn't rely on it, not now. So with a few silky smooth words, and a baby's guileless smile, that girl—_Gwen_, she'd said her name was—had been easily convinced to find them a room and give them a meal.

"My uncle won't mind," she'd insisted. "Business has been slow, and we'd have to be heartless to turn down a starving baby and her daddy, y'know?"

Skye had politely protested just enough for her to beg once more, and then he agreed that yes, this would be perfect: for the baby's sake. "What's her name?" Gwen had asked, and, with another pause, Skye had answered, "Claire. Her name is Claire."

The smell of their room was musty, filled with the dust of new carpentry and the starchy smell of brand-new sheets. He'd asked innocent questions: was there a TV, did they get the news all the way out here—really, everything was local? How different! The chances of his story—Skye's story, not Steiner's—spreading to this hick cable-less town was laughable.

As was the idea of a kidnapping all the way in Forget-Me-Not.

"I'm sorry about treating you like that, I really am," Gwen apologized. An extra pillow was tucked under her arm for baby Claire's head, and the cook poked her head through the door to see Steiner stretching on the bed, fully awake. "But you have to understand, in need or not, you were breaking in and scaring the hell out of me. What was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I understand completely," Steiner assured her. "It's your job. What kind of beautiful innkeeper would you be if you let thieves crawl around here at will?"

"I'm actually just the cook," she admitted. She plopped herself beside him on the bed and smiled. "My uncle, Doug, is the innkeeper. He's a good guy, though. I'm pretty sure he'll let you stay until you find a place to live. He'd be glad to work something out, I'm sure."

"You're a saint, darling." His words had an easy effect on her; Gwen's cheeks would color in some sort of embarrassment or indignant pride. Skye surveyed this new specimen of woman: ah, he'd always been a sucker for blondes, and this one was no exception. She'd tossed her silky locks in a hurried ponytail, but even that managed to showcase her beauty, and those eyes!—so fiery and red, like jewels. And what man wouldn't mind admiring her figure? The more beautiful, usually, the more difficult it was to penetrate their defenses. But Gwen? Oh, Gwen was crumbling easily enough.

Too simple. Too easy.

"Oh, this is completely abysmal," Gwen laughed, shaking her head. "Did you do this?"

Bristling, Skye turned to protest, when he saw just exactly what the girl was doing. "Oh. I'm afraid I haven't had much practice changing diapers. Claire's mother used to do that."

"I can tell. What is this—there's knots everywhere!" Chuckling, Gwen's fingers worked at the mess of cloth as Claire squirmed beneath her. "How long were you going to let her suffer like this?"

"She's not suffering," Skye scoffed.

"Uh-huh. _You'd_ like to wear something like this for so long?" His answer silent, Gwen lifted her hand expectantly. "Fetch me some fabric from the storage-room. I can tie her a new diaper with it."

Part of Skye woke up in alarm; leaving Claire's baby alone with anyone tended to do that to him, he'd noticed. But then he surveyed Gwen's eyes—teasing, gentle—and saw the fight wasn't worth it. Besides, her request made sense, didn't it?

"And there we go," Gwen announced, their combined efforts creating a brand new diaper. "Now your daddy has no excuse for cleaning you up so horribly, okay?"

"You handle babies often, then?" Skye answered flatly. Was it odd to be jealous of something as menial as this—a cooking girl's knowledge of child-raising?

"Not often enough." Gwen smiled. "The last one came a year ago, and left after a season with her parents. Actually…" The blonde's eyes darted from Skye to the child, and she bit her lip. "Can I…hold her?"

Skye blinked. "What?"

"Baby Claire," Gwen murmured—was she blushing? "I just—I haven't held a baby in so long. Could I? Please?"

_No_. That answer was the first to spring to his lips, but he bit it back immediately. "I'm sure Claire wouldn't mind," Skye let slip instead, and held himself back as he saw Claire's beautiful baby cradled in someone's arms besides his own. That cook girl seemed happy enough, grinning like girls always do when they're met with a pair of sparkling new eyes. _Damn it, Skye, relax. You need her to trust you_.

"She's beautiful," Gwen exclaimed, and Skye laughed.

"You should see her mother," he replied, but even as he spoke the words, Skye knew he was seeing a woman different than the one he had loved—one now lying in the arms of another man.

_Her loss. Her mistake._

* * *

Once upon a yesterday, the worst part of Claire's day was working the field. She'd let out a sigh of relief at the sight of her satisfied plants, all ripe and green and proud, before skipping inside the house to shower off all the sweat and dirt. Trent would be at work, and Willow would be waking, ready to see the world from her mother's arms.

"Do you see her? Over there—can you believe she's out and about?"

"Where?"

"That way. No, that way. Look, I'm not going to _point_—"

"Oh!"

_Ignore. Ignore. Ignore._

If you smile long enough, your mouth begins to twitch. Yet while walking across the village path, the farmer somehow managed to keep her mouth in a curved line, cutting through her neighbors like a knife. It's funny, the effect calamity has on people; they don't mind staring and pitying from afar, but they can't come close to you for fear they'll catch your misery like a disease.

_Ignore. Ignore._

When she gets home, Trent will be there, give or take a few hours. She could snuggle up on the bed and let the record player run, playing the same sweet song over and over again as she stayed up for him so she could cling to his professional white coat and reassuring presence.

Waiting had been the cost of marrying him, hadn't it?

Claire hadn't minded that, not really. Before their marriage, she'd been lucky to catch a glimpse of him once a week, but oh, what girl didn't fall for a handsome man from med school? Yes, he'd wanted her to leave with him for Mineral Town, but they'd worked that out, hadn't they? He'd stayed.

Mostly.

Rummaging about, Claire brought out a single, slender fishing pole and tossed it into the river before her. Too cloudy today to see her face in its ripples, she noted with a sigh, and far too shadowy to make out the slippery figures of fish lurking in its depths. She was content to stand still and alone, dead as stone, until something pulled her forward—something alive.

Her father had taught her how to fish, long ago. He'd taken her to the muddy creek out behind their house and, for once, held her hand without a glove or the touch of a cuff on his sleeve. In his grungy clothes, he became something human, something nature accepted. To be honest, she hadn't liked the _fishing_ at first. Claire had first fallen in love with the sound of her father's proud crow at her first catch, and the rough touch of his hands against her own.

She wondered, briefly, if Trent had ever held a fishing pole over a stream. A wry grin tugged at her lips at the image; no, probably not. She imagined his scholarly face washed over with joy at the perfect catch, laughing as he held a wriggling fish in hand before a delighted, grinning little girl.

"She looks so sad and alone standing there. I could never handle that, I just couldn't. Poor Claire."

But for a moment, she isn't Claire anymore. She's one with nature, a fragment of a memory she knows she deserves to someday have.

And she will. Oh, if she has any say in it at all, she _will_.

* * *

"Good morning, Doctor Trent."

Even for Elli, the greeting was a bit chipper than usual, and the doctor caught himself raising an eyebrow as he nodded in response. "Morning."

As always, he walked on over to his examination table, and as always, Elli retreated to her place behind the counter. She bit her lip and glanced at him once more. "Um, Doctor?"

"Yes?"

A pause. "Nothing."

She could have asked him how his wife was faring, whether they'd heard anything about the baby, if Skye had been caught. She could have said sorry, asked him why he was here when he clearly needed to be home—offered to be a shoulder to cry on, even.

"Elli? Where are those papers on Lillia from the other day?"

But Elli was his nurse, and right now, that was all Trent really wanted her to be.

* * *

She'd been in Forget-Me-Not before, long ago. Maybe not so long, if she was being brutally honest with herself, but Detective Stone made a point of pushing her past journeys as far back into the recesses of her mind as possible.

It was maddening, almost: the legal laws in this region. Everything seemed so effortless; you steal, you wind up in jail at the victim's request. You kill, you're sent to the city for proper punishment. You kidnap…and then what?

Then you file a missing person's report, and Detective Stone winds up in the middle of nowhere, a phone call away from turning this idyllic paradise upside-down with federal agents and high-tech machinery.

The mayor had pleaded against it, which was the only reason she'd been called instead of the entire enchilada of federal alphabet soups. The case sounded simple from his mouth—a little too simple. He'd sat her down at the Inn with his son (the officer she recognized as the amateur who'd written the report) and, over coffee, explained that they had a primary suspect, someone known for petty theft, who had written a note warning his crime.

It was in her gloved hands now: _Fair maiden, I shall steal your heart this very night_.

"Crime of passion," Detective Stone muttered to herself. There were no photos of either baby Willow or the suspect Skye, but she'd been given what was supposed to be an accurate portrait of both, courtesy of the bizarre artist down the way. She already had the documents about the parents: squeaky clean doctor from the next town over, and architect-turned-farmgirl via inheritance. Obviously, something had happened between Skye and the mother; what it was could be as simple as a spurned boyfriend, or as complex as…well. The detective had seen quite a few scenarios more complex than _that_.

Well, if the mayor wanted things to go low-key, she would grant him that. From what she'd been told, there was no reason to suggest the child was in immediate danger; Skye was a thief, yes, but he'd had yet to be convicted for any violent behavior, and to be honest, there was no reason besides this note to suggest the child had even been _kidnapped_. Yet she'd investigate this criminal all the same. There was no way for Skye to get far either, not with the nearest airport a whole state line away and the automobiles on the road nonexistent. All he had available to him was going by foot in this area, or sailing on the sea—and no one had seen any such ship while on vigilant watch. Others more capable than Detective Stone were already searching the region up and down.

God, it hadn't changed at all, had it?

Detective Stone looked about her once more, her blue eyes calculating, and couldn't help but marvel at how the village had maintained its fairytale feel, how the Inn was still right there with its faded yellow walls, and how maybe, during this whole ordeal, she might see a familiar face, or…

"Nami?!"

Or a familiar face might see her.


	4. Chapter 4: Disillusioned

**Note: **Hey guys, I'm currently on chapter **nine** of this fic on my document (whoo!) so I'm feeling pretty good about this story. On the other hand, it makes me prone to forgetting that y'all have no reason to love Trent just yet as much as, say, Skye. So sorry about the half-kidding complaint last chappie! And now that all our lead players are out and about, it's time for some serious conflict. Go read. :D

_**Chapter Four: **__Disillusioned_

Nami shuffled her feet, uncomfortable under this man's stare. Some days in the past she'd wished, desperately, that he'd take those ridiculous sunglasses off so she could study his eyes and gauge their reactions. She needed no such help now, the shock on his face plain as any sunrise.

He blinked. "You…uh, you're back."

"On business," she replied sharply. His eyebrows rose up and reached the brim of his large, stupid green hat; after all this time, he still hadn't taken it off. Figured. "I'm working with the kidnapping. You know, of the doctor's baby girl?"

"Ah. That." He scratched the back of his neck. "You, uh, never told me you were doing any kind of, y'know, legal things."

"I don't think you ever asked, did you?"

Gustafa laughed at that. "Ha. Guess I never did."

She hadn't the time for this. She was supposed to be meeting the parents now, wasn't she? The doctor would be arriving home in an hour, and if she could question his wife—alone—so much the better. It had been Nami's experience that questioning marital affairs went better one on one.

Yet here Nami was, facing some blast from the past, and she couldn't for the life of her squirm away. Not this time. "So…you're still doing your music, I guess?"

"You got it." The guitarist rapped his knuckle against the instrument strapped on his back affectionately. "Got the melodies down right, but without you, my lyrics have been total duds."

"Practice makes perfect," she replied breezily as she cast her head over her shoulder. God, the sun was sinking already, wasn't it? "Look, Gustafa, as much as I love seeing you here, I've got to—"

"Oh, yeah, working. Got it." He nodded, his grin split wide. "So, I guess this would be better some other time, huh?"

She sighed in relief. "Exactly."

"Eight o'clock tomorrow, then. Breakfast at my place."

He took his leave, and Nami blinked, ready to protest. "But—"

"You owe me!" he shouted with a laugh, and Nami wished, with all her heart, that his words weren't true.

* * *

So maybe Doug hadn't exactly approved of keeping Steiner and Claire home free of charge and free of mistrust. Gwen should have expected it. After all, she had forgotten to edit out that simple minor detail that he'd snuck in while she was there, alone. "You can't know his true intentions, Gwen," he had sighed. "I'll let him stay because of the kid, but other than that, I'd kick him to the curb in an instant. But if he's gonna stay here, he's gonna work."

Still, even that welcome hadn't exactly made her nervous. So this meeting, well, it was pretty scary if it was causing her to shake and tremble like this, wasn't it?

"Who is he?" Steiner had asked, mildly intrigued. The thief had spent all morning slaving in the kitchen as her assistant, and Gwen had found that he did better at sampling the curry than distributing it. After the shouting fest that had ensued between them afterwards, the idea of Gwen taking the time to introduce him to anyone was enough to raise his eyebrows. Claire, who was lying on the bed, tried to copy him, but failed miserably.

"Just this guy," Gwen hedged with a shrug. "Um, his name is Bob, and I've known him since I was little, okay? So, I thought maybe you should meet him, because he comes here…basically…a lot."

Telling _Bob_ hadn't been an issue. Bob was always so happy, so sincere—how could he hold anything against this stranger and his daughter in that big heart of his? Yet at the same time, how could Gwen respond to his overwhelming desire to meet them and say hello?

"Hm." Steiner revolved the thought in his mind, turning it each possible way before saying, "I'm not…sure…that I want to see anyone, beautiful."

"And why not?" Gwen retorted, stung. "Are my friends not good enough for you?"

"Not what I said, fair maiden. I've just been a little on edge around strangers since, well, since Claire's mother left us." He closed his eyes and let out a single sigh. "But if he is your friend, I will meet him."

"Okay. I'll, um, let him know." Gwen smiled, waved to the baby, and turned on her heel, the door closing behind her.

_Damn. _Skye paced the room and swore violently, making a frown spread across the baby's innocent face that opened up into a cry of alarm. What the hell was happening? He hadn't meant to see anyone, not at first; people were liars, were traitors, were dangerous. Hadn't it been bad enough that he'd taken that Gwen girl into confidence? Her uncle, too? And now, this—this—!

_Damn, damn, damn_. Kicking the post of the bed, Skye took in a deep breath, failing to calm himself. This Inn was too good to be true. That stupid girl's trust was too easily obtained. He could have kept traveling, kept hiding from place to place if it weren't for—well. If it weren't for the baby, he supposed.

Thoughtfully, he stared at her, this crying little girl. She had her mother's eyes, didn't she? Lovely blue eyes of the sharpest color. "You'll hypnotize them one day, won't you?" he chuckled to himself. His slender fingers brushed away her tears, and she continued to sob, scared by something only a child could name. "Those deep, ocean eyes. Someone could drown in those eyes, if they weren't careful."

His arm wrapped itself about her, and as he pulled her into his lap, a remarkable thing happened. He told Gwen about it later, in astonishment, and she'd laughed at him and shaken her head. "Didn't anyone ever tell you," she'd told him, "that sometimes, all a baby wants is to be held?"

Some things, Skye supposed, time never changed.

* * *

"So good to meet you, Detective Stone."

Claire smiled—something that was getting easier to fake by the day—as she surveyed what the mayor had declared her daughter's unofficial savior: a woman with cut-off khaki pants, artlessly cut red hair, and intelligent eyes. Too intelligent, Claire felt, as they ran up and down her figure shrewdly.

"Likewise. Listen, I'm going to have to ask you a couple questions—you don't mind, of course?"

"Of course not," the blonde agreed easily, seating them both down at her kitchen table. Her legs were crossed tightly, the blood no longer circulating as her heart sped up with both anticipation and an all-too-familiar fear. "What do you want to know?"

"Lots of things, actually." The detective waved some files in the farmer's face. "See these? They tell me jack except that your daughter is gone and that, allegedly, a certain 'Phantom Thief' Skye stole her off. So. Why would he do that?"

_Certainly a blunt little spitfire of a detective_, Claire thought to herself. "You read the note, of course."

"Answer the question."

"Well, it's not so simple," Claire answered. She played nervously with a curl that had fallen in front of her face. "Skye…oh, ask anyone about him: no one knows why he steals, or what for. He's a dreadful womanizer, and all the women here have, in some way, ah…met…his advances. So if you're implying anything—"

"Have I done anything but asked you to answer the question?" Nami objected. "And you've just raised two more: any reason he would switch from stealing objects to children, and why, of all the women here, would he center in on you?"

"I'm not an expert on kidnappers, Detective Stone," Claire snapped. "How should I know?"

_Just be calm and composed, _Trent had instructed her earlier. _Answer the questions, tell the truth, and there will be no reason to suspect anything._

_Suspect what? _she'd inquired. He'd hesitated, kissing her once more before answering.

_Suspect us, dearest, of hurting Willow._

All that came rushing back to Claire now as the redhead pursed her lips in thought, jotting something down on a pad of paper. "Hm, well, I suppose it's fair to ask your opinion, though. Because, so far, that's all we have going to show that a kidnapping took place, and that your baby girl didn't just crawl off somewhere."

"She couldn't have, though," the blonde blurted out, composure unraveling more by the second. "She had to have been taken, Detective Stone, I know it! And it was Skye. It _had_ to have been Skye."

Nami let the pen balance on her knuckle, studying its ballpoint in something akin to boredom. "Fine. Let's say the writer of the unsigned note is Skye. What I want to know, then," the detective announced, "is what makes you so sure?"

Her mouth dry, and her excuses all but exhausted, Claire stood up from the table near to tears. "I'm not saying another word until my husband gets home. It's been a very trying past few days, and I'm sorry if a mother's instinct doesn't account for anything in your book, but it does in mine." A pause. "Do you have any children, Detective Stone?"

The woman didn't blink: "None."

"Then just, for once, accept the fact that I know just a little bit more than you do, and please get out of my house. Now."

* * *

_It's obviously something she doesn't care to remember_. Nami flipped all the notes in front of her like a hand of cards, eyeing each as a gambler would his odds. On the one hand, Claire seemed genuinely worried about her daughter; then again, who wouldn't be? Either way, she was being incredibly hostile and, what's more, she had practically shoved Nami out the door instead of answering anything.

So, then, did she not want to talk about Skye because they had a past, or because he did something she would rather not recall? Something violent, possibly?

No, no, that would _help_ her case, not hinder it. If Nami were in Claire's position, she'd tell all; a man who hurt a woman once was liable to do it again. More likely, she'd had a not-so-squeaky-clean affair that her polished-and-pristine doctor of a husband wouldn't be able to stomach. It made sense, didn't it? Skye kidnapped her baby to spite her.

Than again, note aside, that was all speculation.

Suppose Claire had done it. She was certainly impetuous enough to do so. Maybe it was a cry for attention—God knows Nami had heard about the doctor's many hours away from home. Losing a child would force him to come closer to her. Losing a child would make her look like a good and worried mother. Blaming an old flame—or just an old flirt who'd gotten too close—could very well be sweet revenge and a way to renew her marriage all at once. And, if Claire knew where her daughter was, there would be no need for anything but faked hysterics.

Again—all speculation.

Hell with it, Nami needed facts. Her brain hurt from all this guesswork, and what was more, she sounded like a mystery novelist and not a detective. If the mother wasn't going to give answers, fine; she'd milk the other cow. That doctor seemed amiable enough. First thing tomorrow, she'd question him.

_Tomorrow_. Crap. Nami grimaced. Second thing tomorrow, anyway, right after breakfast with a certain guitar-strumming idiot who hadn't a damn clue when to quit.

* * *

The first thing that registered in Skye's mind upon meeting Bob was _Good God, he could kill me with a single bear hug. _And a bear wasn't too far from an accurate description; Bob's arms were pure muscle, and his face was etched with a simple villager's smile.

"So you must be Steiner!" he crowed, shaking the thief's hand roughly. "Nice to meet ya! I'm Bob, from down at the blacksmith's. And who's this pretty little girl?"

'Claire' was obviously just as scared of this strong man as Skye was, and she whimpered a bit as he scooped her into his arms. "That's my daughter," he answered curtly. "Claire."

"You weren't kidding," Bob laughed to the blonde beside him. "She _is_ a cutie."

Gwen giggled, fingers toying with her ponytail. Skye raised an eyebrow, but said nothing; everything about Gwen, he noticed, had been changing since this burly man's arrival. For one thing, she bounced from one foot to the other with rapid indecision, and it caused her miniskirt to swish in what a girl would suppose to be a flirty way. Skye snorted. _Blatantly obvious, more like it._

"Would you like some food while you're here, Bob?" Gwen chirped. "We've got soups, sandwiches, salads—"

"If I don't know what you serve by _now_, then Goddess help me, Gwen," Bob interrupted her with a grin. "But what about our new friend here—Sterner, isn't it?"

"Steiner," Skye corrected him rigidly. "And I know what's on the menu as well; I've been paying for my stay by working in the kitchen." It wasn't as if Bob had asked, or that it really mattered, but the idea of this bumbling giant knowing more than Skye about _anything_ irked him to no end.

"Well! Then I'm sure you know by now that there's no finer cook than Doug's very own Miss Gwen." Another booming laugh.

Without a second thought, Skye promptly took baby Claire back into his own hands and gave Gwen a desperate glance. "We don't need to eat anything. Really, I'm sure Bob has other work to be done."

"Don't worry about it, Steiner!" Gwen answered from the kitchen. "This is on the house, and I want you to get to know the town. You don't need to skulk about here, you know. Everyone here helps everybody else."

"But to be honest, I'd gladly spend my time here more than I would any place else," Bob added good-humoredly. "So we'll be seeing a lot of each other, eh?"

A groan died in Skye's throat. "Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."

* * *

"I like him," Bob announced. "A little stiff, and definitely too skinny to work in _your_ kitchen, Gwen, but I like him."

The cook nodded, gazing at her companion every chance she could get without getting caught. He was too easy to read sometimes; some days she'd wished he was more begrudging about his feelings, just to give her the chance to misinterpret them and gain some shred of courage. _Feelings. Huh. How long have I had those, I wonder? Long enough. _"I feel bad for him," she replied. "He seems so proud, and yet he's…I don't know, there's just something almost vulnerable about him. I can't imagine what would make a woman leave her husband and child."

"It's a crazy world out there," Bob agreed. "But I agree—it's inhuman to leave an adorable baby like _that_!"

"Can you imagine, though? Being left like he was?" Gwen shook her head, the wind whipping back her hair. "I guess I can't blame him for being so suspicious of people. Trust is hard to give once you lose it."

"Well," Bob declared, "I figure everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt, anyway."

"I know you do. You're too good, Bob."

Gwen smiled, and oh God, it hurt so much to watch him smile back. _Say it. _Her hands—had they been this clammy moments ago? Her throat felt so full it threatened to burst; her heart beat so fast it might break. _Now, Gwen. Beat it out of your system. Get whatever courage you've got left and—_

"Do you remember when we were little?"

They weren't the words she'd been intending, but they worked just the same. Bob blinked his wide, honest eyes, and grinned. "Don't I! You and me, Gwen, we were peas in a pod, weren't we?"

"Remember how you'd help me get onto your father's horses? And how I'd always slip, but we kept trying, and then suddenly I could ride just like you?" The words were bubbling over now, practically overlapping. "We promised we'd be friends forever. We'd race all day and all night, and we promised that, someday, we'd have a ranch all our own to share."

"Gwen—"

"Do you ever think about that?" she begged, her boots stopped on the path. "Do you ever just find it on your mind, nagging at you, and suddenly you just want to go back and race all over again, as kids?"

_Say it. Oh, Goddess, you're so close—just say it._

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow, do you…do you want it to be like that again?" Gwen cleared her throat and dared to look up at his eyes; her words left him stunned, nothing more. "Do you want to, maybe, spend the festival day with me?"

"Uh, Gwen." Oh no, he was scratching his head now—she steeled herself against it, willed herself to watch this agonizing display in silence. "Tina, well she and I…we're kind of going to try that, ourselves, tomorrow."

"Oh." All the anxiety, the pent-up expectation, seemed to decline with the release of that single syllable. Her arms wrapped about herself, struggling to keep some of the warmth those emotions had left. Everything felt cold now, numb.

"I'm sorry."

Gwen shook her head, the pity stinging like ice. "Don't be. Tina…she's a nice girl, a good farmer. Good racer, too, if I remember."

"Yeah." He nodded awkwardly, Gwen's hold on her emotions as weak as his own. A big strong arm pulled Gwen close and ruffled her hair, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Gwen—we were good together back then. Real good."

"I know," she sniffled.

"And there's going to be somebody good for you now, because girls like you don't go around wearing broken hearts for long. There's something good for you out there, I _know_ it. Right, Gwen?"

"It's late," she whispered, pulling herself away. "Uncle Doug will want me home."

Bob's arms fell to his sides, limp. Her words had softened him, and he murmured, "Gwen, this isn't the end. Remember that, okay?"

_Let it be, let it be, let it be_. Gwen squinted her eyes shut, the path ahead too familiar and too assuming. Her boots clacked upon the stone, and God, what she wouldn't give to silent their conceited sound, their proud walk.

"_Gwen, would ya marry me one day? When we're all growed up?"_

All the time in the world she'd had, and yet she'd blown it in one night. The moon loomed overhead, lording over her with a sneer as it followed her all the way to the Inn. She slammed the door open and shut behind her, something wet pricking her eyes.

"Oh, good, you're back," Steiner called from the counter. "We're running low on salt—"

"For the love of the Goddess, you can figure out how to fix something as easy as that, _can't_ you?" Gwen scoffed. "Shut up and get it done; I'm not in the mood to baby you tonight."

He stared, speechless, as she stomped off to her room, kicking off her shoes and throwing herself onto her bed. Soft, comforting blankets. Familiar, soothing sounds. Nothing had changed here in this room. Nothing had come crashing down.

"_Course I will, Bob. You're the only guy I'd ever love."_

She wiped her eyes on her arms and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. All those years. All those wasted, wasted years.

"People change," Gwen reminded herself, yet even so, she wondered how exactly she, out of the billions of human beings living in this crazy world, had been the one to have forgotten the memo.


	5. Chapter 5: Believing

**Note: **Nano ends this weekend, and I'm fairly certain I won't make it. But that doesn't mean this story won't be finished eventually! 27,669 words is a heck of a lot, and you're only halfway through what I've done so far as is. Thanks for the support—you guys make writing each chapter all the more fun. :D

_**Chapter Five: **__Believing_

"Go on, try it."

Nami sniffed the contents of her cup skeptically. "This is _not_ tea."

"Sure it is." Gustafa grinned at her and took a swig of his own drink. "It's _my_ tea, anyway. My own secret recipe, as a matter of fact."

"Great. Now I definitely don't want to drink it." She pushed it away and sighed, eyeing the yurt and letting a wave of nostalgia overtake her. It reminded her of a circus tent, almost, with its bright colors and gaily assorted items. A gypsy hideout, maybe. Everything smelled different today; the scent of spices, not incense, permeated the air. Well, Gustafa had promised her breakfast, hadn't he? He had to cook it _somewhere_.

"So." Gustafa smiled again. "Where have you _been_ all this time? I mean, one day I wake up and you're gone, your room's empty, and suddenly you pop up like a daisy out of the ground. What's up with that?"

"If you must know, I was working," Nami retorted. "And touring some of the country, just for kicks. You were here all this time, though, weren't you? So no point in me redirecting _that_ question."

Gustafa raised an eyebrow. "That's not fair. For all you know, I ran off with a band of hermits and taught them rock and roll."

"Pink Floyd?"

"The Rolling Stones." He laughed. "Nah, you got me pretty pegged, I'd say. Being a starving artist and all, I'm not going anywhere."

Nami flushed, his stare disconcerting. Every movement she'd made to date—fiddling with her napkin, tapping the tabletop, whatever—attracted Gustafa's undivided attention, and the detective found herself eager to shake his gaze. She stood up and turned her back to him, pretending to be interested in the drums propped against the wall. "Nice decorating you've done here."

"You think? Sometimes I think it's too much for a tiny place like this."

"No, it's fine. Kind of cozy." She paused. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a watch."

She rolled her eyes. "Hilarious. Look, I need to interview Doctor Trent before he leaves his house. I would have done so already, if I hadn't been pulled into _certain engagements_."

Looking pleased as punch, Gustafa leaned back in his chair and asked, "Did it ever occur to you to just blow me off? You never had any problem doing it before." Nami remained silent. "Well, I guess I should chalk this newfound conscience off as a result of detective training."

"Shut up."

The musician watched, amused, as the girl stomped off, her cheeks as scarlet as her flaming red hair. "You can give the girl a conscience," he grinned, "but she's still got a mouth all her own, I see."

It was nice, he thought with a smile, to see that some things stayed constant.

* * *

All things considered, Gwen decided she was handling the events of last night fairly well. Especially compared with the infamous hysterics of Eve after her first break-up with Dan (there were several to follow), the cook proudly deemed herself level-headed, independent, and strong.

"You're burning the food."

Or so she thought.

As a yelp sounded from Gwen's throat, a calmer Steiner took the liberty of dousing her flaming vegetables and promptly throwing them out in the garbage. "I'm so sorry," Gwen blurted out.

"No problem."

"I should have been paying more attention."

"It's fine."

"Crap, can't you just stop patronizing and _agree_ with me?" Gwen cradled her head in her hands and moaned, the morning's frustration crippling her. Burning the food wasn't her only crime; she'd dropped two plates, gotten three orders wrong, and swept the room last night _after_ mopping instead of before. _What's wrong with me?_ _I never space out like this in the kitchen. Never. _

Steiner eyed her a moment before picking up table four's order. "Maybe you should take your lunch break. You'll give yourself wrinkles with all this worrying, beautiful. It's not good for you."

"I'm not worrying. It's just a bad day."

The blonde scanned the list of pending orders and got straight to work on a chicken salad, determined to prove her lie to be true. After all, everyone had bad days, regardless of heartache. Everyone messed up every once and a while, didn't they? This didn't have to be the result of Bob's rejection.

She wouldn't let it be.

"Table five's done, Steiner. Get it going."

Gwen threw a glance at herself in the pan's reflection: pretty eyes, cute figure, cornsilk hair. No reason there to scare him away. Her personality wasn't terrible, either; she was friendly, energetic, hard-working.

_But I'm too late all the same. And, I guess, none of that matters when you're scared._

Doug had suspected something was up, but he was her uncle, and she expected no less from him. She'd chatted away all his concern for her, even suggesting they open the Inn tomorrow—festival day or no—to give the holidaying couples business.

There were certainly enough of those about to validate that lie. Over in the corner, Gwen could see Carl's head of curly hair, Ellen's sweet innocent smile across from his. If she craned her head a little more, then she could spot Ellen's cousin, Blue, off with the mechanic's daughter, Ann, eating sandwiches. She didn't let herself look further, for fear of seeing a certain brunette seated with a man she knew all too well.

"Hey, Gwen!" The meal almost slipped from her fingers, the greeting unexpected and, Gwen decided, unwanted. The first thing to register in her mind was a pair of pigtails, and the next, a girl's face with big, brown eyes. "Mind if I say hello?"

"Tina." Gwen forced a tight-lipped smile. "Not at all!"

"So!" Tina swayed on the balls of her feet, biting her lip. "Bob told me you'd found out about us. Surprised, huh?"

"You have no idea," Gwen replied thickly.

"Yeah, well, we didn't want to say anything for a bit, because _we_ were surprised, too!" Tina prattled on. "I mean, we knew we had a lot in common, but one day, we suddenly realized that hey, there's something there. And we went out some, but we didn't want to say anything, because we weren't too sure. And now we are! Ahh, you have no idea how good it feels to have someone else know about this, really!"

Gwen poured water into the pot. "I'm sure I don't."

"We might make it public soon. Like, after tonight's Full Moon Festival, we're thinking about telling Bob's uncle. Oh! I'm so sorry!" Tina slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand and laughed nervously. "I'm so rude. I didn't ask you what you were doing for tonight!"

"Tonight?" Her fingers froze, the faucet still running.

"Mhm! Who're you going with?" the farmer asked. "I've heard that pretty much everyone already has their day mapped out, but I haven't heard anything about you. Jamie's still open for the night, I think, but you two didn't seem like a couple. Unless you _are_, in which case, I'm totally fine with it!" Tina amended quickly. "So, who's your date?"

_Good Goddess, I so don't need this now._

Innocence radiated from the farmer's pleasant smile with a glow that left Gwen cold and, oddly enough, embarrassed. Tina wouldn't mind the truth. Tina wouldn't rub it in her face, or laugh. She'd do something far worse.

She'd _pity_ her.

So in the future, when Gwen blamed herself for what exactly happened to set her fate in motion, she pinpointed the moment she announced to an oblivious Tina, "The new waiter. Steiner."

* * *

"I'm flattered, my fair maiden, but I'm afraid I can't go tonight."

"Well, why not?" Gwen floundered, his response unanticipated. "It'd be a great way to get to know the village traditions better!"

_Which is the last thing I want. _Skye let his fingers twirl about the rim of the glasses, music sounding from their half-filled hearts. "Claire will need me to watch over her. I leave her enough during the day for work as it is."

"And she's always fine. Hey, you know that every time she cries, gets hungry, or whatever, my uncle and I are right on it. Things will be fine if you just spend a few hours with me tonight. Okay?"

The glasses continued to sing. "What about that other fellow?" Skye replied instead. "That Bob of yours."

Gwen flushed pink. "What about him? He's going with his girlfriend."

"Ah. That explains things." His blue eyes narrowed in on a chip in the glass as the puzzle pieces came together: Gwen's clumsiness this morning, her mood-swings, her short, clipped replies. Who knew better than he the absurdity of jealousy? "So I'm your pawn, then, against him?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Look, I'm just being nice, alright?"

"Being nice." Skye bit back a laugh. "Oh, Gwen. You're such a terrible liar."

"Sh-shut up." The cook crossed her arms against her chest, and defiantly turned towards the window, staring at the world outside. "It's not like I care if you go with me, anyway. I'll go it alone if I have to."

"You won't." He flashed her an impish grin as he stood up, her indignant scowl rising immediately at his words. "Because, fair maiden, it seems I'll be going with you."

* * *

Some days, when Trent got out of bed, he'd have the strangest feeling he wasn't home. The wooden walls, the homey décor, and the figure of his wife sleeping beside him stunned him, made him wonder why he wasn't in his safe clinic, sleeping in his upstairs room. Then, just as suddenly as the panic had come, it would vanish, and Trent would remember that this _was_ home now, take it or leave it.

Still. The sight of that strange calculating woman leaning against the barn struck an uneasy chord in his soul, and Trent approached her stiffly, hand extended. "Ah, you must be Detective Stone, yes?"

"If _you're_ Doctor Trent, then yes, I am." She ignored his hand rather pointedly and glanced up at the sky: a vivid robin egg blue. "I trust asking you a few questions won't make you late for work?"

"Not unbearably." He offered her a relaxed smile, and inwardly cringed at the thought of staying out later to recover the lost time. Claire wouldn't approve of it, but she'd be fine, wouldn't she? His wife was a strong woman; she could handle a few more hours alone. "I'm under the impression you've already interrogated my wife?"

"You and your wife are not the same person," the redhead stated flatly. "I'm hoping to get some answers from you that, frankly, she felt compelled to withhold. Any reason she might behave that way?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Hm."

She said it with such finality Trent suspected that his answer was anticipated. His hands tightened into fists; somehow, this bothered him. _This is foolish. One woman's judgment shouldn't affect mine. _"You have questions. Ask them."

"No reason we can't walk and talk, is there?" she commented. Without waiting for his reply, the redhead began to circle the farm, mulling thoughts over in her mind. "How long have you been married, Doctor Trent?"

"A year. Roughly."

"Not long, then. So Willow was a honeymoon baby?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Bet you were just thrilled, having a child so soon in your marriage."

"Not at first." He didn't catch himself in time to edit that last statement; Detective Stone turned, eyes lit with interest. _One slip-up is all it takes. _"I—what I mean to say, Detective Stone, is that it made me more self-conscious about my work."

"How so?"

"I wouldn't be home often," he answered; wasn't this obvious to a shrewd woman like her? "I wouldn't get to be, well, a perfect father. I love Willow, very much, but someday when she's older, she might…not see that so clearly."

"Assuming we find her," the redhead felt compelled to add.

Trent frowned, his tone icy. "That's your job, isn't it?"

If that statement fazed her, Detective Stone didn't show it. "What can you tell me about Skye?"

Doctor Trent breathed a sigh of relief; this subject was far simpler, far less personal. "Not much. I didn't come around Forget-Me-Not too often until I married Claire. One visit a week isn't a sufficient amount of time to get to know every enigma in the village."

"But it's long enough to find a life partner?"

"Yes," the doctor replied staunchly. "I believe it is."

"If there was any previous relationship between Skye and your wife before your marriage, would you know about it?"

"You are insinuating," Trent answered through gritted teeth, "that I don't trust my wife."

"Not at all, Doctor Trent. I'm insinuating that, maybe, your wife doesn't trust _you_."

* * *

Silence has a language all its own. Maybe the words never change, but there's a certain tone to every silence—Lillia could tell that much. Love has a silence comforting and coy, hate one stifling and proud, while fear possesses a tone tense and unsure. The silence permeating the air today seemed an offspring of the latter: taut and cold, sick with dread. "Doctor Trent, is everything fine?"

"Absolutely." The answer came too quickly, too rehearsed. "Is your medication working?"

"You know that it's the same as it's always been," the woman replied good-naturedly. "The children have been absolute angels, and every difficulty I've had has been a minor one. If anything, I should be the one asking about your health, shouldn't I?"

He chose not to respond, instead searching through his records with a steely expression. Hands flew through paper; names and dates swam before his eyes. Anything to block out his thoughts—anything, anything at all. "Oh. We're out of your prescription this month. I'm sorry, Lillia; things haven't been…ideal…lately. I'll give you something similar, and it should hold you until the next shipment comes in."

"It's no trouble at all, Trent. From what I understand, you're going through quite a few trials right now yourself, aren't you?" She smiled, an innocent act, and smoothed her skirt. "You know, Elli worries about you. She doesn't say anything, but she worries. Sweet girl."

"It's not her burden to carry," he answered tightly.

"If I may be so bold, Trent, I don't think it should be anyone's at all. No one should have to handle the loss of a child—not alone, especially."

"Willow is not lost." _Not yet._

Maybe it was a lie; maybe it wasn't. Trent couldn't tell anymore, not with the hazy fog that now obscured truth and fiction. _Why did Skye choose your child, of all people? What had that note said: fair maiden, wasn't it? What if he wasn't just flirting? What if…?_

The doctor's hands clamped against the counter, his head suddenly heavy and sight suddenly blurred. God, what searing pain ripped at his mind, what agony his logic was inducing now! Something twisted within him, like a snake's coils, and he shivered, unwilling to let it loose. _No, I can't believe that. I can't doubt simply because…because…_

Simply because there's reason _to_ doubt.

"Lillia, I'm going to end our appointment early," Trent whispered, and the pink-haired woman nodded, standing up without a sound. "I'll bring you your medication next week."

"Thank you." Gliding towards the door, Lillia paused for moment, her eyes flitting towards his with the solidarity of a fellow sufferer. "I'll be praying for you. You and your wife. You…you'll need each other now, of all times. God knows that if Rod were here…" She broke off and smiled once more. "Well, God knows things would be different."

The door closed lightly on its hinges, and Trent buried his head on the examination table, a low, helpless groan leaving his throat. He couldn't go home. He couldn't, he couldn't—_I've got to, I've got to_—he couldn't, who knew what doubts might leave his tongue?

"Doctor Trent, Lillia's left already?"

The brunette hesitated in the doorway, her employer's moment of weakness strangely more embarrassing to herself than to him. His hands ran through his jet black hair, and his eyes turned to hers, hollow. "Get my wife on the phone, Elli. Please." A pause. "Tell her I'm working late. That I won't be able to attend today's festival." _Tell her, _he breathed, _that I'm sorry. Oh, God, I'm sorry, Claire._

Elli frowned. "But we're done for the day." He was leaving his wife alone? Those sunken eyes—they didn't really want this. They couldn't, of course not. "Are you…are you sure you want to this, sir?"

"Completely."

Her fingers trembled over the dial, but it was only a matter of seconds before an innocent, "_Hello_?" echoed through the receiver.

"Claire." Elli coughed, the lie stuck in her throat. "Uh, the doctor needed me to tell you something about tonight…"


	6. Chapter 6: Moonlight

**Note: **Not only would I like to thank reviewers, but I'd also like to announce (i.e. shamelessly advertise) a fun thing my forum is doing. Secret Santas! You sign up to write someone a fic for the holidays (secretly!) and someone does the same for you. Just wanted to put that out there, 'cause it'll be fun. :D Anyway, this chappie actually needed some tweaking before posting this week, but I hope it is to your liking. Enjoy!

_**Chapter Six: **__Moonlight_

_I feel so silly._

The light reflected off her pearl earrings, drawing rainbows on the wall in the shadow of her lamp. They were simple, small, and elegant, and Gwen didn't doubt that she'd have put them on without a second thought if she'd had Bob as her date tonight. Festivals came only so often; Eve had told her many things about them, including how going the extra mile to doll yourself up always yielded positive results.

"If all conversation fails," Gwen repeated the girl's advice with a laugh, "at least he'll have something worth looking at."

The soft touch of blush against her cheeks tickled her, and the smearing of lipstick tasted sticky and wet on her mouth. Funny, wasn't it, that she would put so much effort on a date she couldn't care less about? In an effort to maintain her dignity, Gwen had forced herself to keep her usual vest-and-tube-top array, complete with maybe just a little more shine on her boots and belt. For a few moments, she debated taking down her hair before realizing all the straightening, gelling, and combing that would require.

_Overkill. Definitely._

She wiped the excess makeup off her hands, and glanced once at the mirror. Awkwardly, she smiled, a petite and pretty girl grinning back at her. _Well, on the plus side, you look cute. _Whatever good that would do her, anyway.

"Gwen, are you ready?"

Steiner's signature knock sounded on the door—"shave-and-a-hair-cut"—before she twirled about and twisted the knob. "Um, yeah." She scanned her date's appearance (his usual fur coat convincing her that keeping her everyday attire was a good idea) and nodded. "You?"

He smiled wolfishly, arm extended to escort her from the Inn's doors. "My fair lady, it would be a pleasure."

* * *

What was remarkable about a star, Claire decided, was that you could reach for one, swear that it fit in the palm of your hand, and yet have grabbed nothing. They were taunting, these jewels of the sky, and Claire stared at them from the beach with a calm, almost emotionless air.

"_It's almost criminal, isn't it, that something can be so beautiful, yet so far away?"_

Claire took in a deep breath, steadying herself. No, she wouldn't think about him. Not tonight.

Elli's voice had been feathery and timid over the phone: "_The doctor will be working late tonight. He's asked me to tell you that, um, he won't be back till morning. He's sorry to be missing today's festival, though. Really."_

Really? Claire closed her eyes, the crash of the waves filling her ears with its thunderous cries. Really, Trent had to work late? Was that all? _My Goddess, I'm being paranoid, _Claire rebuked herself. _He's just doing his job. You knew it'd be like this, marrying him. Stop whining._

Her hand closed about a wooden beam, the small rain-shelter above casting a shadow on the moonlight. It felt splintered, rough, beneath her fingertips. Natural.

"_Stars and people aren't so different. Why so distant, beautiful?"_

"_What do you know about beauty?" _she'd answered him instead, eyes downcast.

"_Dance with me, and I'll show you."_

Full moons cast mystery over the night. They're pendulums of eerie light, chandeliers of the sky. All around her, the ocean's waters had sung their song, and she'd let the music overtake her in its exotic melody. Everything had been set so beautifully, so perfectly—as if nature herself had prepared a ballroom, playing Cupid with a temperament that changed with the tides.

"_A ballroom for two. Come on, Claire. Dance with me."_

Her nails dug into the wood, the memory burning into her mind no matter how desperately she tried to shake it away. _"I—I can't dance. It's silly, doing it here."_

"_Look at me, Claire. You _can_ dance. Take off your slippers, Cinderella. Let me lead you."_

"_No, I—"_

"_You're a free person. You can dance on the beach if you want to." _A hand had extended itself towards her, soft and inviting. _"Do you?"_

Trent was a man ruled by law. By logic. By rules. Trent was a sensible man, and sensible people did sensible things. Yet that night, long ago, Claire had become a nymph of the sea, slipping out of her shoes and dancing barefoot like a wild girl on the sand. The beach had cushioned her feet, and he had held her steady, their waltz changing into a gavotte, a carmen, a tango, a creation with no name at all.

"_Dance with me all night," _he'd pleaded._ "Don't leave me, beautiful."_

And she, the lovesick fool, had replied, _"Never, Skye. Never."_

Now, she stood alone on the beach and stared, emptily, at the frosty white moon, chaste and round. "Never, never," Claire laughed to herself. "Those were my words, weren't they?" Then the syllables began to pile, one by one dragging her further into despair. "And they were yours. Yours, too."

"_Claire, I think I've discovered what it is about you." _His hands had tangled in her hair, his smile sincere and proud. _"You're not logical at all, are you? You're a passionate fool, just as I am."_

No, she was not sensible. She was not logical, ordered, methodical, no matter what pretenses she fought to uphold. Trent knew as much, didn't he? The emotion continued to seep from her since Willow's disappearance, and yet he—that damned sensible man—had yet to shed a single tear or miss a day of work. Claire choked for a moment on the bitter, bitter irony—the "I do" and the "Don't leave me" that had both, once, seemed such powerful words.

For a second, she let herself wonder when Trent would come home. If he would see her crying like this, tangled and tied in her own miserable mistakes. If he would ask her what was wrong.

If it even mattered anymore.

* * *

"Nothing adds up."

Nami tossed a giant wad of discarded theories and scribbles into the waste basket behind her. It fell in with a decided thud, and Gustafa loudly cheered "Score!" in the background. She rolled her eyes, his bizarre participation more a hindrance than a help, and asked, "Well, what do you think? Really. You've got to have _some_ kind of opinion."

The man might have been her second shadow, knocking on her door and asking her plans for the Full Moon Festival. "Working," she'd answered, slamming the door. Another knock. "Can I help?" he'd asked, and she'd slammed it again—only for his foot to catch in the door.

His dark eyes now traveled from the paper strewn about the Inn's room to Nami's haggard and strained expression. Deep lines stretched across her forehead, wrinkling as she puckered her brow and bit her lip. "I think," Gustafa replied, "that you're slowly killing yourself with this career."

"Not helping. Your _real_ opinion, please."

"But I wasn't lying!"

"Once again, you're not helping. Help or leave."

A sigh. "Fine." He piled the pretzels in front of him with meticulous care, and said, "So. Claire won't talk to you about Skye. Trent will. And, if Claire won't come clean, Skye has no motive, and—since the note isn't signed, and we can't prove it's his—he might not be our man."

"You're just regurgitating what I said, Gustafa."

He topped the pretzel tower and grinned. "Not true. You were far more eloquent."

"Suck-up." Nami made a face and stole a pretzel. "I feel so unprofessional doing this. Like, you have no idea."

"Well, you're the detective, so you tell me: is stealing a pretzel illegal?"

"I mean sharing the case with you!" she groaned. "Goddess! Don't you take anything seriously?"

He flicked the tower, causing everything to collapse. "Nope. Not really."

"You are so immature," Nami muttered. She pulled the bag of pretzels closer, glaring daggers at him as he dared to steal one more. "Listen, I've got a criminal to catch, and if we don't—!"

"We! She said _we_!" He applauded her, grinning ear-to-ear. "For the first time in her life, Detective Nami Stone has said the word we! What next? Civil answers? Invitations? A secret love of Harlequin romance novels?"

"Get out. Now."

Gustafa crossed his arms and laughed. "You're all talk. Make me."

"You stupid man," Nami scowled, flicking a pretzel at his nose. He blinked.

"Ow. Nice aim."

"Leave already!"

The musician studied her, Nami's cheeks red with anger and her mouth twisted into a snarl. "Every time we leave each other, you're always mad. Do you think there's a reason for that, or is it just me?"

"God, Gustafa! You _are_ the reason!" she shouted back. "Don't you get it?"

"No. No, Nami, I don't get it." She'd thrust her hands forward to shove him out, but his grip was stronger, and his hold more bold and sure. "Look at me," Gustafa ordered her softly. "Nami, _look at me_. Why are you always trying to push me away? What do you see in my eyes that makes me so repulsive to you?"

"What do I see?" she repeated. Harder, she had to push away _harder_; pretzels crunched beneath her shoes, and the two of them twirled about, the musician leading her struggles away from the door. "What the hell makes you think it has to do with seeing? Maybe I'm just not interested, Gustafa! Maybe I've _never_ been!"

His fingers tightened. "In me?"

"In anything, okay?" Her eyes escaped his, preferring the dreary walls, the unfeeling furniture, to his piercing gaze. "I…I don't know what I'm supposed to say to you. I don't know what you want from me—actually, I take that back. I know exactly what you want from me. And, Gustafa, it's—" Nami shook her head, and elbowing him sharply in the ribs, she slipped away, eyes hard as diamonds. "Go home. Go home, Gustafa."

He collected himself, a gasp still caught in his throat like a knife. He managed a weak smile, but Nami knew enough about lies to sense one when it was uttered. "Ate too many pretzels, didn't I?"

"This isn't a game," the detective snapped. "When you're ready to accept that, we'll talk again."

"But someone still wins, don't they, Nami?" His voice was tired, deflated almost. "And someone still loses."

Nami eyed him in silence before opening the door. "As I remember," she murmured, "I never promised you anything to begin with."

* * *

"It makes you feel like God, doesn't it?"

The girl laid her head on the balcony, the treetops and rooftops an endless sea below. Little stars sparkled above, but the full and pregnant moon bathed the world in a light no other force of night could surpass. Skye cleared his throat, his companion's voice a tiny whisper on the autumn breeze.

"God? I wouldn't say that." He came beside her, staring at her profile in the moonlight. "It just shows you how small the world truly is. Nothing is ever too far away."

"That's sort of comforting, don't you think?" Gwen commented with a smile. "You can never truly lose yourself if you can always find where you started."

"Sometimes you don't want to." His hands latched onto the balcony, but his eyes locked on what lay ahead—what lay beyond. "Sometimes you want the world big enough to lose you in the shuffle. Sometimes you wish you could escape."

One hand outstretched towards the heavens, shadows slipping through his fingers as he groped for something—anything—in this moonlit sky. Rumors, fears, and threats caught onto this breeze with their hooked, desperate fingers, and the thief closed his mind, unwilling to breathe them in.

"I'm sorry." The blonde turned away, the sight of his pain strange, unexpected. "I don't really understand. I've never felt that way…I—I guess I've never had to. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Skye whispered, trance shattered. "Why sorry?"

"I just can't imagine any of it," Gwen apologized. "I can't imagine that kind of rejection or that kind of pain. It's not possible for me. Here I am, in my own safe little world, where the worst thing that can happen is losing your childhood sweetheart. And it's…it's so _shallow_." She covered her face, make-up falling into disarray and mascara staining her hands. "Oh, God. I must look so immature. To be honest, you're right: I just asked you here because of my own silly, stupid, superficial problems. I lost a dream, but so what? You lost so, so much more. I shouldn't be the one resorting to something like this; I'm not the one who's been…" She swallowed back guilty tears. "I—I'm sorry, Steiner. I really am."

Astonishment danced in his eyes, this innocent girl before him cradling her head and murmuring the most absurd words for his sake. For not feeling _pain_. For not being _hurt_. "How old are you?" he asked her gently, something strange pulling at his heart.

"Nineteen, come my next birthday," she sniffed. Gwen turned her head towards his, eyes squinted in confusion. "Why?"

"Eighteen." So young. So naïve. A strange curiosity shot through him, and he brushed his hand against her cheek: soft, pure, smooth. His fingers traveled through her bangs, stroking them away from her face and resting by her ponytail. "Be thankful," he whispered into her ear. "Don't be sorry. Be _thankful_."

She laughed at that, dabbing her eyes with her hands. "Yeah. I'm just new to this heartbreak thing, so I…I guess I must sound pretty selfish, huh?"

"You choose the worst words to describe yourself," Skye chided her. His hands—why did they refuse to stray from her cheek, from the tangles of her hair? A thrill coursed through him as he met her eyes: "You are a beautiful, caring, and loving soul, Gwen, with a perfect heart to give. Remember that. Don't lose that."

_Yet a gullible soul all the same. A manipulated heart—a weak heart._

These thoughts did not console him, nor did they leave his mind when Gwen put her hand on his own, and replied, "I'm glad you think so. But you're not him, and I'm not her, am I?"

"No." Skye sighed and stared across the village, dots in the distance promising of towns and hills not trodden ahead. He pulled away from her gently, her hands folded in his like a lily flower. "No, we're not. But, fair maiden, who ever asked us to be?"

* * *

They said, in olden times, that the sight of the moon made men mad. That moonbeams and moonlight caused a sickness of the mind, and led to strange lunacies and fancies. "Lunatic" and "Lunar" are words born of the same idea; maybe they're right, and our ill decisions are determined by the moon's tides. Perhaps foolishness, then, is blamed by something besides our own mistakes—something outside of our control, like fate and destiny. Maybe there are no mistakes at all, just accidents. Maybe we've just stood in the moon too long to know the difference.

Claire stared out her window once more, blankets wrapped around her ankles and her nose pressed to the glass. No one there but nature. Nothing but trees and sky. _He'll be home, _she reminded herself. _Any second, now. _Each reminder came dimmer than the last, quieter and less sure. Fragmented. _He wouldn't abandon me. He wouldn't leave me alone. _The pillow smothered her cries, and she bit her lip, the cock crowing in the field.

Maybe, in the end, we're just waiting too long for the dawn to care.


	7. Chapter 7: Uncertainty

**Note: **Mm. I like this chapter. :D I'm so happy I'm ahead of this fic, because I'm writing my Secret Santa gift (for whom, you shall learn this Christmas Eve xD) and it's insane when you throw exams on top. It's just…gah. Holidays are stress-filled, no? Anyway, thank you to all my readers, and, uh, you can go read.

_**Chapter Seven: **__Uncertainty_

He was looking at her. Just then. If he wasn't looking at her, then that meant he'd caught her looking at _him_, and Gwen would rather die than admit that. "Nothing happened that night," the cook had reminded herself over and over. "Nothing at all. I'm just being stupid, that's all. I'm rebounding—it's normal."

_He called you beautiful._

"He always calls me beautiful," Gwen muttered, slamming the refrigerator door. "This is nothing new."

But he was looking at her right now, wasn't he?

…Which also meant he knew she was looking at him. _Crap_.

"Hey, Steiner." Gwen grinned and waved her celery stick at him in greeting. "How's Claire today?"

"Fine. Happy." His hand ruffled through his silver locks, unable to hold eye-contact for long. "It's fairly empty today, isn't it?"

"Oh, did you forget? We're closed today," Gwen explained with a smile. "I'm just grabbing some food 'cause I'm hungry. After that I'll probably—" The sentence broke in half, a celery stick snapped in two. "Um, you want anything? You can bring Claire out, if you want; no work means you've got time for play."

The child's name had that same effect on him it always did: the thief's eyes brightened, and he immediately removed himself with his elegant—yet somehow quickened—gait. _I wonder if he ice-skates, _Gwen thought in passing._ He'd be wonderful at it—so fluid, so full of grace. I should ask him someday. _She let her head rest on her arm, Steiner reentering with a chubby baby Claire in tow.

"I think she's hungry," Steiner announced, the little frown on his child's face clearly agreeing with him.

"And what would the princess like to have today?" The blonde grinned. "We've got crushed peas, crushed carrots, and milk for your eating pleasure on our baby's menu. And with your special employee discount, you can have any of the three for—" Gwen paused for a dramatic interlude. "—absolutely free!"

Claire just whined.

"She doesn't like the peas," Steiner answered for her. "Carrots are good, but she'll need the milk, too. She has such a big appetite—it's like there's a bottomless hole where her stomach's supposed to be."

Gwen laughed. "Do you hear what your daddy is saying about you? _Do_ you?" Her hands scooped up a bowl, a spoon, and a jar of mushy baby food and laid them on the counter like merchandise. "So, will you feed her today, or will I?"

As always, Steiner picked up the spoon. The funny thing was, at first glance, Gwen would have never labeled him the paternal type. He seemed someone groundless, something slippery—a man who couldn't be caught. Yet here he stood, anchored to this little girl and trying to feed her with a choo-choo train trick Gwen had taught him just days ago.

"Open the tunnel, baby. Come on, your daddy knows what's best for you. You want to grow up big and strong, right?"

Claire clapped her hands together, giggling. "She loves your voice," Gwen heard herself say aloud. "She lights up whenever you speak."

"Does she?" Enlightened by this knowledge, Steiner beamed. "She does, doesn't she?" He stroked Claire under her chin, tickling her so that she ducked into her bib, eyes squinting in delight. "If you want, Daddy will talk to you as long as you like; he'll even sing to you, if you just eat this food. Baby, princess, darling, _please_ eat."

Squealing, Claire reached out to touch her father's cheeks, and Steiner took the opportunity to stick the spoon in her mouth. "Not so bad, is it?" he murmured, and oh, Gwen had never _seen_ such eyes filled with love, never witnessed such care and affection in any other human being.

_It's like he's more than just her father. He's…her guardian angel._

Warmth radiated from the father and daughter, but Gwen felt strangely cold, watching from the outskirts of this love. Being jealous of a baby didn't make sense, did it? Envying that kind of focused devotion—wanting that kind of honest love—was nothing short of pathetic, foolish.

_But don't we all look for that?_

"Well!" Her own voice startled her, speaking with a cheer she'd forgotten she possessed. "I'm going to be going out, so bye."

Gwen skipped out towards the door only to be stopped by Steiner's protest: "Why? Where do you need to be?"

"Oh." Gwen blushed, mumbling, "See, every day I get off, I go over to…okay, so there's this ranch, and I go racing on horses, and it's kind of stupid, I know."

"Horses? You race horses?" His tone wasn't insulting, as she had been expecting, but merely curious.

"Yeah. I'm actually pretty good." Her hand went to her neck, rubbing it in embarrassment. "But I need to practice, so…"

"Maybe we'll come by some time," Steiner offered. "Claire might like to see the horses. Girls…" He paused, turning to her for approval. "Girls…like those, don't they?"

She almost laughed; the look in his eyes was so helpless, so needy. "If you really want, you can come by the ranch tomorrow. I can't promise you'll have anything interesting to watch, though."

"Fair maiden, I'm sure it will be fine. It's not like Claire and I are doing much, are we?"

_Fair maiden. _That again_._

"Doug will tell you where to go," Gwen told him with a wink as the door locked behind her with a tidy little click. "See you then."

* * *

The first thing that had attracted Trent to Claire was, funnily enough, her smile. Often, when he'd come to Forget-Me-Not, his travels took him past the local farm, and there she'd stand, working and sweating in her field all day long. He'd glance, from time to time, over the mushrooms and herbs gathered in his arms to see her stretching her stiff body and going to grab herself a drink of water. One Wednesday, Trent had watched her only for her eyes to land on his, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"_Hello_?"

His heart beat faster than a hummingbird's wings; his voice died with every step she took closer. The mushrooms and the herbs fumbled in his hands, and with a final stab of humiliation, they fell onto the ground, leaving him with nothing. "_Oh, I—_"

"_Here, let me help." _Her slender, tanned arms scooped them from the dirt and she laughed. "_Didn't mean to startle you. I was just, uh, wanting to say hello. I'm Claire. And you would be…?"_

"_Doctor Trent. From Mineral Town," _he felt compelled to add. _"I, well, I spend my days off gathering medicinal herbs here for my stock."_

"_It's such a hot day, though," _Claire had said, and her hand pulled back a strand of her golden hair—a habit Trent would recognize quite often in the time to come. _"Would you like a drink? I've got ice."_

She'd been so free, so trusting. And yet, Claire had been intelligent, too—dedicated, set, ambitious. Everything Trent himself could admire. Everything anyone could ever want to be.

Time was a cruel artist. He drew his masterpieces so painstakingly detailed, and yet in an instant, scribbled them out under chaos and despair. What a mess he'd made of them both, Trent thought to himself bitterly. What a complete transformation had taken over his wife, and, in effect, over him.

"Where have you been?" Claire accused him quietly. The words came out hollow, too tired to nurse anger in her weary body. He hadn't expected her to be awake; he hadn't thought she'd be sitting at the dinner table, a plate set up on both their sides.

Trent stiffened. "At work—"

"No, Trent. Where have you _been_?" Those hands that had once seemed so petite, so soft, now hid her face from view with a screen of shame. "All this week, Trent. You've been gone all week. It's been seven days, and it will become longer than seven days. You're avoiding me." Her hands fell, revealing her agonized expression: eyes wild. "You're abandoning me."

"Willow isn't here. Whether I am or not doesn't make a difference. Whether I am at work or at home won't change whether they find her," Trent answered softly.

"But it affects _me_, Trent. It matters to _me_." That voice which had once been so steady and so sure now cut through the soundless room like ice, cracking under pressure from all sides. "Do you have any idea what it's like going about for food, for shopping, for anything out of this house? Enduring pitiful looks as you walk by? Having people speak to you like—like you're _less_ than them, like you've failed at something simpler than _breathing_?"

"Claire—"

"You don't. You honest to God don't. And I don't think I could make you know what that feels like—not if I had all the words in the world. They'd all be wasted on you, you know that?" She stood, and there was something remarkably powerful about this woman—something imposing in her regal, dignified carriage. She seemed a queen, Trent thought to himself, and yet he felt far from being her king. "Do you want to move out?"

"What?"

"Do you? Because I have been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for you for days now, and I always get a phone call telling me you're busy. _Busy_." She laughed bitterly. "You liar."

"I could accuse you of the same thing," Trent retorted flatly. His words shook her from her pedestal, and he continued, enraged: "There are days, Claire, that I've wondered about Skye. Wondered why he chose _our_ child, and why he chose _you_. Days that I've wondered even if…" No, he would not finish that thought. He would not, he would not, he would _not_.

"What are you saying?" Claire whispered.

"I'm saying I want to trust you. But I'm also saying that I've never been a blind believer." He stared her down. "I'm _not_ blind, Claire. It's simpler to pretend that I am, sometimes, but now it's not so easy."

Claire shook, thoughts swimming and panic seizing. Why was the room dark—no, wasn't it bright, wasn't it day? When did time decide to stop? When did everything become red? "That woman got to you, didn't she? She told you those lies. She told you—"

"Dammit, Claire, it's nothing I couldn't have seen myself if I'd just chosen to _look_!" The control had broken; the dam had burst. "Who do you think you _are_, Claire? Do you think you're the only one in the world who knows pain? Do you think I don't go to sleep, every night, wondering if I'm the only one who's laid in this bed?"

"Shut up! For God's sake, shut up!" Nightmares swirled through her mind, omens of this day—yet nothing compared to the reality that was his disappointment, her betrayal laid naked before the world. _He doesn't understand. No one understands. _"You don't know what you're talking about, Trent! You don't—!"

"No, I don't!" Trent roared; how the anger surged once freed from its iron gates! "I don't, and that's the problem, Claire—I _should_ know! I'm your husband. I'm your other half. If I'm supposed to be there for you, for better and for worse, I need to know on what ground we stand. Right now, I'm standing on an earthquake, and I don't know where I'm supposed to turn. To _you_, Claire? _You_?"

"You're supposed to trust me," Claire insisted, her voice high and scared. "No matter what I've done, or what I haven't done, you're supposed to stand by me."

"Dear God, Claire, you wanted me out of the house just minutes ago. Make up your mind." His hands tightened into fists, and suddenly even looking into her eyes took so much effort, so much strain. "What do you want from me?"

"_Trust_, Trent. Is that so much to ask?"

The queen had fallen; the scepter had snapped. Memories danced before Trent's eyes: this woman laughing, smiling, holding his hand, cradling his Willow. Now, nothing stood before him but a broken woman, battered and bruised by time. Her arms wrapped about herself like a shield, and Trent wondered when exactly he'd stopped trying to penetrate its iron defenses.

"I'll trust you, Claire," he heard himself reply, "once you give me reason to."

The door shut, and neither could, for the life of them, remember wishing for something as simple as a plank of wood to come between them.

* * *

The last time Claire had gotten drunk, she'd been young, stupid, and foolish. It had been once, but it might as well have been an eternity—never could she shake the memory of hurling the remnants of her mistake into the toilet seat, of hearing the laughter and stares from what she'd once called friends. Part of her had died, and no matter how she strived to find it, Claire knew she'd never recover it: her dignity. _Never again, _she'd told herself. _Never again._

But she wanted to die, right now. She wanted something to kill her, slowly and painlessly.

The lights flickered; the liquid sat like fire in her throat. One drink, two drinks—they were all the same after awhile. One more wouldn't make a difference. One more wouldn't change a thing.

The world swirled about her, and Claire stumbled to walk forward, her feet playing tricks on her eyes. Forward, left, back. Right, side-step, stop. When you're stoned, it's not about anything anymore—nothing makes sense; nothing has to.

_It's an escape. That's all I need: an escape._

She couldn't say how she wound up passed out on her field, or how her clothes lay wrinkled and dirtied when once she'd cared so desperately about her appearance. Her head hurt like hell; her body felt like crap. She was living: this pain hurt too much for her to be anything but.

And the memories: they remained the same, ever the same.

Standing up, she quivered, retching once more into the brush. No one would care, no one would judge her, no one would know. Not Willow, not Trent, not Skye. None of them were there for her now—none of them stood by her, after all this time.

_You can't rely on anyone but yourself in the end, can you? _She tumbled forward, and her eyes narrowed, the thought beating through her skull with its steady refrain. _No one but yourself, yourself, yourself_.

* * *

Outside her window, music was playing. Slow playful notes slipped between the shutters, and she closed her ears to their calming melody. In Nami's hands sat a crystal shard, and in it she could see her face reflected tenfold as if upon a funhouse mirror, a chandelier's diamonds, a lake's surface.

He'd written this song, long ago, under the autumn leaves. Maybe she could pretend not to remember its rhythm and melody, but her memory took its snapshots too vividly, too clearly for doubt to sneak by.

Before, she'd just been Naminè Stone, and he'd just been a stranger hidden by a bright green hat. The air had smelled of incense, of rosemary and thyme, and his words had sounded so sweet, so beautiful in her ears.

His hands had danced on the guitar, plucking at the strings with a dexterity Nami knew she could not mimic, not even if she'd dedicated herself, for years and years, to learn how to do so. _Innate_, that was the word that came to mind—his body needed no hints from the mind to know exactly how to play his music.

"_Did you like it?_" His voice had broken away from the lyrics, easing into a conversation Nami had never expected he'd give. "_I know you're there, behind that tree. It's okay. I don't mind having an audience, you know."_

She'd made excuses, stumbling forward with cheeks hot as sin, and he'd just laughed in her face. Nami remembered bristling at that, shouting at him the first of many times.

Oh, God. How moments linger.

Her mind flashed through dozens and dozens of images: of standing in the rain, of having his guitar placed in her hands to play, of writing poetry side by side on the beach. Each time, unbeknownst to her, he'd crept ever closer, until Nami found too late the desire in his eyes. _"There's something between us."_

"_No. There's nothing, and that's all you're going to get from me: nothing."_

"_See, that's the one thing I'll never understand about you, Nami. Why are you always trying to push people away, when you need being with them so terribly?"_

"Stones are cold," Nami whispered to herself, hugging the Moon Stone closer. "That's just how we are."

"_I don't believe that."_

Her icy eyes narrowed, and without missing a beat, she smashed it against the floor into hundreds of jagged pieces. Outside, the music stopped, and she picked up another stone and hurled it to the ground once more.

It broke, yes, but fixed nothing.

"Nami?" A knock at the door. "Nami, there's someone here to see you."

The shards of glass twinkled in the sunlight, and the redhead shut her eyes, the sight blinding. "Tell Gustafa I'm busy. Tell him I can't talk now—that I have no intention of talking to him, period."

"Oh, but see, your visitor _is_ here on business." Ruby's voice faded in favor of a quick knock and an impatient turn of the doorknob. Nami stared, dumbstruck, as a beaten creature entered the room, hair disheveled and eyes empty as the sky, all color gone from her cheeks.

"Detective Stone." Claire let out a wry smile, a forced laugh. "You win. All hell has been set loose, and you've _won_. Congratulations. I now give you your prize—all the damn answers you want. What the hell. It doesn't matter anymore, does it, now? You _win_."


	8. Chapter 8: Hurdles

**Note: **Gah, I'm late. See, I was with a friend last night, and the update totally escaped my mind. Sorry! As always, my love goes out to the readers and reviewers--and don't be afraid to love or hate a character! It's not my goal to make you love or hate everyone as much as it is to give you different sides to each person. So don't feel guilty about disliking Claire or loving Skye! The story will tell itself in time. ;)

_**Chapter Eight: **__Hurdles_

Claire _reeked_ of alcohol. Nami backed into her chair cautiously, the woman before her no longer a human being, but something far more unpredictable, far more threatening. Maybe her career hadn't thrown her in the way of psychotic murderers, but Nami knew a dangerous creature when she saw one, and right now, Claire was as venomous as a cobra.

"Well? Aren't you going to ask me questions?" Claire frowned, her eyebrow raised. "Funny. I thought you wanted to squeeze everything out of me, didn't you? _Didn't_ you?"

"Are you saying you'd like to give me more information with regard to the kidnapping?" Nami answered slowly.

"_Yes_! Yes, I don't give a shit anymore. Ask me. Ask me anything at all. Go on, _do_ it."

"Ms. Claire," Nami replied gently, "are you drunk?"

"No. I've _been_ drunk, but I'm not now. But, oh God, do I wish I was. You have no idea." Her hands flew to her forehead, rubbing her temples as she sighed. "Ask me. Ask me now."

When did the earth decide to turn itself inside-out? Since when did Claire willingly—_frighteningly_ willingly, at that—offer to fix the holes in Nami's investigation? _Don't question a good thing. Take it while it's there._ The detective's hands groped for a notebook and pulled a pen out of her pants' pocket. "Skye, then. What can you tell me about your relationship with him?"

"He was an accident." Claire shook her head, the words running together. "Skye was a spontaneous shooting star in my life, a—an eclipse, you could say. I didn't go looking for him. I didn't ask for him. _He_ came to _me_. He said such things: things girls like me don't listen to." Her eyes trained themselves on the floor, on the glass lying there. "But I listened. I don't know why, but I listened."

"When did this happen? Before or after meeting Trent?"

"Shortly after. It didn't—it wasn't supposed to be anything at all. It wasn't, I _swear_. But he made me feel so strange and so warm inside when before all I'd felt was emptiness…he, well, I thought maybe it was something bigger than what it was." She shut her eyes, her voice weakening in momentum. "I thought maybe I loved him. And that was the scariest thing in the world, Detective Stone. Because I could never, never love a man like that."

_No one can love a creature who only loves himself._

"So what happened?"

"I—I told him that he had to go. I told him that I needed someone suitable, someone like Trent. Skye didn't know about me dating Trent, I don't think. It, well, surprised him."

"Surprised?"

"Enraged, more like." Nami watched as this woman—this girl—crumbled before her very eyes, reduced to a shivering husk of what she used to be. Fear rolled off her in waves, and she whispered, "I thought Skye might kill him. Honestly, I did. The way his mouth tilted into a snarl, how his once sweet tongue suddenly cut through me like a knife, how he cursed me, how he cursed _Trent_! No. No, I—"

A shudder rippled through Claire's body, and Nami found her pen suspended over the paper, writing nothing.

"No. He threatened us, but only—ha!—only to steal my feather." Claire laughed: a maddened sound. "Silly, isn't it? That ruining one tradition made him think he had the power to stop me? I didn't care. I called his bluff." The blonde smoothed her overalls, smiling with tight lips. "And look where we are, a year later. Look, Detective Stone. Does knowing my story help you any? No. Does it, in any way, help you find my baby girl? No. No, it does not. But I hope you are happy. Oh, I hope you've got all the damn happiness you please. Because now my husband—no, no, I should call him Doctor Trent—now Doctor Trent is no longer living in my house. Now I am alone, not only because my daughter has left me, but because my husband thinks I am a cheating slut. So thank you, Detective Stone. Thank you for all the _work_ you've done to bring my daughter back to me. Thank you so damn much."

Her hand extended in the most terrifyingly cold manner, and Nami hesitated before taking it, Claire's mock grin searing through her with nameless intensity. The nails pierced through her skin, drawing blood, and Nami winced despite herself. "What secrets you chose to keep from your husband, Ms. Claire," Nami spoke softly, "were your own, not mine."

"And what decisions I've made, Detective Stone," Claire replied in a tone equally level, "are my own business, not yours. So next time, go ruin your own life, not mine."

For a while, they stood like that, before Nami slipped her hand free of the farmer's death-grip. "I…I'm sorry for your loss, Ms. Claire," she managed to say. "I am."

Claire started towards the hallway, the sound of crunching glass underfoot echoing in the room. In the doorway, she paused, turning her head to give the briefest of smiles. "Like hell you are, Detective Stone. Like hell you are."

* * *

Yesterday was a word that used to refuse to sit on Skye's tongue: a time that was easier forgotten than remembered. Yesterdays spoke of robberies, of escapes, of adrenaline rushes that he'd never receive again. Yesterday was a stale word, measured by routine. Yet, when a day is measured by smiles and by laughter, suddenly it's worth remembering. Skye closed his eyes at night and dreamed of those days, days that, sooner or later, would slip out of his fingers into thin air.

He had never been caught. Never.

He was beginning to mistrust that word.

"Look, Claire. Look at Gwen's pony." The mare pranced about the field, its owner proud and erect as she stared down her spectators. Then, like a shot, her body lunged forward, one with the beast's—racing, racing down cobblestone roads as Gwen's hair flew behind her: a teasing golden ribbon on the wind. Claire squirmed in Skye's hands, reaching for this woman from behind the safety of the fence, and let out a whine when he refused to let go. "No, baby," he purred into her ear. "No, you can't go after her. She's pretty, though, isn't she?"

_Beauty is deceiving, though. Beauty mocks you if you let it._

"Hey!" The sound of hoofbeats slowed to a halt, and Gwen laughed, shaky breaths leaving her ruby lips. "So? How'd I do?"

"You're asking the wrong equestrian," Skye replied with a smile. "You looked marvelous, though, fair maiden. Claire couldn't take her eyes off of you."

"Really?" The girl's mouth split into a grin. "Wow, my first fan! I'm going to get an ego trip if she keeps cheering me on like this."

She had such an agile body, leaping nimbly from the horse's back and landing feet-first on the ground. It was a trick Skye himself had mastered once, during a minor burglary he no longer cared to recall. Still, he'd never seen anyone else manage to pull off anything of the sort, and felt a begrudging respect for this woman he was so cleverly duping.

"Hey, Gwen, looking good!" a voice called, and both their heads turned to see Bob, waving from atop a fiery stallion. "Heh, we're going to have some serious competition this year, I can tell!"

"_What_ competition?" Gwen laughed. "I'm going to beat you into the ground, and you know it!"

"Oh, Gwen, you better make sure you can ride as well as you talk," he chuckled. "Tina's entering this year, too. You better brace yourself, alright?" The strong man kicked his horse into action and sped away, leaving a blushing Gwen alone by a confused Skye's side.

"You're racing?" he surmised.

"There are two horse races every year," Gwen explained. "Bob and I have this friendly rivalry thing annually, and if he wins, I give him lunch on the house."

"And if you win…?"

She paused and made a face. "Let's just say that I haven't gotten that far yet."

"So you've never won?" Skye cocked his head at her, and she mumbled a string of unintelligible excuses, things about 'bad weather,' 'sick horse,' and 'fog.' "You've been racing for how long again?"

"It doesn't matter. Bob has always been racing longer," she muttered. "I'm always behind." Tilting her head to rest on the horse's saddle, Gwen sighed and played with the stirrups. "In more ways than one, I guess."

A sharp whinny broke through the air, and Skye yelped, Claire pulling on the horse's mane and antagonizing it just enough to make the mare back away in alarm. In moments, Gwen, Skye, and baby Claire found themselves piled in a heap in the dirt, one slipping forward to protect a child with his hands, the other losing her support as the horse trotted off in the distance. Red eyes met blue eyes, and, with the relief of safety behind them, started to sparkle with laughter.

"Graceful work, huh?" Gwen giggled, standing herself up.

"Your elegance is matched only by your cooking skills, Gwen." Skye patted Claire's head fondly, her little mouth grinning from her latest adventure. "This one, here, needs to keep her hands to herself, though."

"And as her father, I think you're deserving of her punishment." The cook grinned impishly. "Laundry. _Someone's_ going to have to get these dirt stains out."

"Oh, fine." Then, as a look of confusion crossed his face, Skye asked, "But how…how do you _wash_ clothes, exactly?"

Gwen couldn't help it; she burst out laughing.

* * *

"So there we were, the two of us, and he was—I swear, he _was_!—about to dump the whole bottle of detergent in. Can you imagine? All those bubbles, everywhere!"

The table was full, or at least as full as Gwen would like it to be. The two girls across from her giggled, and Gwen laughed as well, the scene playing her mind. "Oh, Gwen, I kind of wish you'd let him do it," Katie admitted with a grin. "That would have been hilarious."

"But imagine how much work she'd have to do afterwards, and all that water damage," Eve murmured. "I'd feel guilty, yet…"

The girls exchanged smirks once more, doubling over in fits of hilarity. Oh, it felt so _good_ to spend time with the girls again, Gwen decided; how long had she spent taking care of Steiner and baby Claire, anyway? Hanging out with Bob and horses instead of with her crew, for that matter?

This week, it was her turn to bring the food; curry, oddly enough, was her choice. Eve usually chose something sophisticated, like filet mignon, cooked to absolute perfection. Katie, on the other hand, loved baking, and she'd spoil them with cookies and cakes and sweets. Eventually, in the interest of calorie minimizing, the three had decided when they met for breakfast, they'd spend it at Calloway Café with Katie's cooking. Lunch was spent at the Inn with Gwen, and dinner, of course, took place at the Moonlight Café with Eve as chef.

"So, come on, Gwen—is he here?" Eve twirled a strand of her golden hair and smiled. "I've heard some people talking about your handsome new waiter, and even if he can't wash clothes, he sounds dreamy."

"Dreamy?" Gwen repeated. Well, yes, she could kind of see it; Steiner was attractive, but it hadn't occurred to her that someone else might think so. "He's a horrible flirt, Eve. Us girls can do much better than that."

"Speaking of which!" Katie piped in. "I got asked out by Joe for the last festival."

"Ooh! And?"

The baker shrugged, her ginger curls bouncing. "Oh, you know. I went." She winked one baby blue eye. "And I might do it again."

"About time, girl!" Eve squealed, and Gwen rolled her eyes as they began talking about what-clothes-did-you-wear and is-he-a-good-kisser and shut-up!-he-did-_not_-say-that! Predictably, Eve brought up her very own tan and gorgeous boyfriend, Dan, and they redid the entire conversation, just from Eve's point of view. Gwen usually took these opportunities to throw in snide comments and eat her food, but she found herself silent as she stuffed curry in her mouth.

It wasn't as if she had anything to say…did she?

_Beautiful. Am I really beautiful? _Her hand strayed to her cheek, and it occurred to her that she wasn't even referring to the physical definition of the word. A blind man could see beauty, couldn't he? There's a beauty of the soul; there's a loveliness of the mind and the heart. When earthly splendor fades, it's that other beauty that remains—one more vital, more pure.

"_You are a beautiful, caring, and loving soul, Gwen, with a perfect heart to give. Remember that. Don't lose that._"

He wasn't toying with her…was he?

"And so, I told him no, that I wasn't busy that night, but I would be free a week later, if he was still interested. Didn't want to seem too clingy, you know."

"Oh, totally, we completely understand. Right, Gwen? Gwen?"

Vaguely the cook could feel her friend elbowing her, and she shook her head, clearing her thoughts. "Oh. Sure. Yeah."

"Monosyllabic much?" Katie accused. "You look so down and quiet, Gwen—it's kinda killing the mood. Are you alright? Do you need to talk about anything?"

She shrugged. "It's…nothing."

"Something's on your mind, girl," Eve concluded with a little 'tsk.' "Spill before Katie shakes it out of you."

"But it _is_ nothing. Really." To prove her point, she shoveled more curry in her mouth—too much, she realized belatedly as her tongue caught afire. Frantic, she grabbed the pitcher of water and poured it down her throat, dousing her mistakes as quickly and painlessly as possible.

The barmaid and the baker raised their eyebrows simultaneously.

"Well."

"If you say so."

"But you're still lying."

"And we're going to get the truth sooner or later."

At that very moment, as luck would have it, the kitchen door swung open wide to reveal an attractive young man, hugging a tiny and precious child in his arms. He stopped in the doorway, his clear blue eyes stunned then relaxed as he took in the trio, and he flashed a disarming grin. "Well. I see you've invited some lovely company today, fair maiden."

Gwen's cheeks caught ablaze at her friends' giggles. "M-my friends. This is Katie, from Carl's bakery down the way, and of course this is Eve, the barmaid up at Duke's. Um, and this is Steiner. Our new waiter. And baby Claire."

"_Charmed_, I'm sure," Eve greeted him, her voice laced with insinuations. "It's so nice to meet the man that our dear Gwen has talked so much about. I don't remember her saying you were so young?" Was it really so terrible that, right now, Gwen wanted nothing more than to sock her right in the mouth?

Steiner's lips curved into a smile. "She didn't, did she?"

"Not at all," Katie murmured. "You…you're the one with the baby, right?"

The waiter paused to look at little Claire in his arms before replying. "Judging from the baby I'm holding," he laughed, "I think I'm going to have to say yes. Quite intelligent friends you've got, my beautiful Gwen."

"Shut up and leave them alone," Gwen snapped. "No one asked you to come in here, you know."

"No, let him stay. He's funny." Eve patted the empty seat beside her and smiled. "Eat a bit. We should chat, get to know each other—and by chance, Steiner, are you married?"

He smiled back slyly. "Not at all."

"_Well_." Eve leaned back in her chair and gave Gwen a satisfied look, one brimming with knowledge and delight. "That, Gwen, certainly explains _that_."

* * *

It's not that Elli liked sleeping in this big empty clinic by herself. There'd always been this eeriness permeating the air as she turned off the lights for the day and settled herself down in her room, alone in this big dark world. Even so, she wasn't happy to see Trent arriving with his big suitcase and his plastered-on smile; if anything, a fear had seized her heart, leaving chills in its wake.

"What are you doing here, Doctor?" she demanded quietly. "Why aren't you home?"

"Home?" The word sounded so foreign, so new on his tongue. "I don't think I understand what you're talking about." He brushed past her up the stairs, and the poor nurse floundered for words as she pursued him from behind.

"Why aren't you with Claire?" she persisted. The steps fell behind her with alarming speed, and the brunette accused, "Doctor Trent, what's going on? Why are you here? Why won't you—?"

"Whenever Lillia walks in here," Trent interrupted her softly, "don't you ever feel helpless?"

"H-helpless, Doctor?" This wasn't her point; he was hedging her protests, he was skipping the blame. Still, Elli found her tongue couldn't form the accusals as rapidly as her mind, and she was silent.

"Helpless," he repeated. The click on the suitcase opened, and he began taking out his clothes, one blouse at a time. "A doctor's job is…is to heal people, you understand? We take someone who's hurting, and we fix them. We give them what everyone else seems to have without even trying: their _old life_." He opened the drawers almost reverently, folding his clothes there within their shadows. "When Lillia first got sick, I think I realized, deep down, that I didn't have the power to save her. That was the first time I'd ever felt this weak, Elli. I felt like…like I didn't have any real power in this world, no real meaning. But that didn't stop me from trying to help her. It still hasn't, even today."

Trent froze, a suit suddenly in his hands. His hands ran up and down the silk, each button perfectly round and whole. His fingers slipped into the pockets, and yes, the gloves were still there—those gloves his father had worn for his very own wedding day. He closed his eyes, trembling, as he placed the mementos back in their resting place. "There are some things in life," he whispered, "that even I can't fix. And, sometimes, I have to let them go and accept that they're going to falter."

"Doctor…?"

"It's beyond my control now," Trent stated, his voice cracking. "Elli, there's nothing I can do now. Isn't it terrible, when a doctor can't even save the one person he loves most? Isn't it ironic, Elli, when it's because she won't let him?"

And he could remember, vividly, how clear her voice had been as she said her vows, how innocent she'd seemed. He could say all the hopes and dreams that had swept through them both, and yet he, too, could name the seed of discontent that sat within him like a stone, sinking deeper and deeper until it was far too late to be pulled free. _Doubt. Mistrust. Fear._

"Here, Doctor." His nurse's hands were now on the suit as well, pulling it free from his tight grasp. "Please. Let me help you."

Perhaps there was nothing more comforting than knowing that, somehow, someone else could realize that understanding and accepting someone can, in the end, be two different things.


	9. Chapter 9: Luck

**Note: **Ack. Late AGAIN. I literally went to bed last night to wake up and realize that, wait, it was Friday. As in update day. So from now on, to save me from future embarrassments, I'd like to update **Saturdays**. If that's okay with you all. Plus, it'll give me time to write a few more chapters…the gap is closing in between what you've seen and what I've currently written. Eep.

_**Chapter Nine: **__Luck_

Faster, faster, faster. Hoofbeats echoed through Gwen's ears; the forest flew by like blurred paintings, greens upon browns in a flurry of paint strokes. The air tasted clear, clean, crisp. There was nothing but nature and her, she and nature. That and the horse beneath her. Nothing more. Nothing less.

"_You don't need to hide it, Gwen."_

Hide it—hide what? Here came the river up ahead: Gwen steeled herself, gripping the horse's reins ever tighter. Timing was everything. Just a few more moments, and then—! For a moment, they broke through the breeze, floating outside gravity's reach. Then, as the euphoria faded, Gwen and her horse landed neatly on the other side of the riverbank and sped off towards nowhere.

"_We're not going to steal him from you, if that's what you're worried about."_

It wasn't as if Steiner's love life mattered to her, did it? No, he could date as he pleased, though it surely wouldn't last long. Wistfully, her ruby eyes traced the landscape before her; no, Steiner might engage in platonic love, but he would always be disappointed. Something about him seemed so detached, so unable to connect to anyone besides Claire in a truly whole way.

He was _broken_, and Gwen didn't entirely know what that meant.

Horse riding cleared the mind. Racing through the trees, the blonde didn't have to think about Bob, about Steiner, about anything if she didn't want to. Yet, often enough, she did. No interruptions can spur contemplation just as readily as discussion; sometimes even moreso. She'd hardly felt like talking to Katie and Eve the other day.

"_Is it the kid? Are you holding it in because he's got a kid?"_

Oh, Goddess, who had said she'd held in _anything_? Though there had been—well. Gwen's cheeks colored at the thought; the man had placed his hand upon her cheek so reverently that night, as if she were the most precious treasure in the world. Had she ever been handled so?

"I swear, Gwen, you think too much," she muttered to himself. Yet was it so wrong for her heart to jump when a certain father and daughter greeted her at the gate? Was it so terrible that, for some reason, part of her didn't doubt that something about Steiner the waiter attracted her?

Why was that so hard to admit?

* * *

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Those three sharp noises woke Claire up at noon, her eyes red and the covers tangled about her in a nightmares' clutches. What could possibly cause her to hallucinate so—to make that rapid, intensive sound appear on her door? Only when it sounded twice did Claire bolt out of bed, eyes wide with excitement and disbelief.

_Trent. Oh, God, Trent's back, he's back, he's—_

No, it had been nothing but a trick of the ear. The door opened to naught but a bleak and empty world, and Claire gazed at it with a sigh, closing it slowly. Then there it was again, that infernal mockery: _knock knock knock_.

"What do you _want_ with me?!" Claire screamed as she threw it open, and only then did she let her gaze lower enough to see a three foot tall visitor.

"Uh." The little girl cleared her throat. "I'm just wondering if you saw a kitty around here."

Little ginger braids graced each shoulder, and a far too prim, far too serious dress fit on this tiny body as she stared up at Claire from a multitude of freckles. Kate, wasn't that her name? Grant and Samantha's little girl. "I—I'm sorry, a kitten?" the blonde found herself stammering; what was wrong with her voice, why so hoarse and weak?

"Mhm. She's black and fuzzy and loves tummy-rubs." Kate paused and tapped her chin in thought. "Well, maybe not from everybody. She doesn't like Hugh much. But I can't find her, and I thought she might be here. Have ya seen her?"

"N-no," the farmer replied. "I haven't been out too much…not recently." Blankly she looked at this girl and waited, _prayed_, for her to leave.

"Why not?" Kate asked instead.

Misery, agony, self-induced sorrows: a multitude of reasons, all of which this silly little girl could never understand. "I guess my heart needs healing," Claire answered finally.

"That's actually pretty funny, if you think about it," Kate giggled. "Your husband is the doctor, isn't he?"

"Some wounds don't heal with medicine."

Kate craned her head to look past the doorway. "Your house is a mess, too. Hard to heal anything in a place like _that_."

The blonde bristled, hundreds of protests at the ready: _You don't know what I've been through. You don't know what I've done. You haven't lost a child and a husband. You're just…just…_

_A child._

Her blue eyes softened and looked at this freckle-faced girl in a new, and almost ashamed, light. "I'm sorry about the mess, I am. But would you like some breakfast, maybe, before you keep looking for your cat?"

"Isn't it lunchtime?" Kate piped up bluntly.

"Right. Lunchtime." Claire gritted her teeth; how quickly had the time passed her by, sleeping alone in this bed? Had nights ever been so short with Trent by her side? "So, what do you want to eat? Anything in particular?"

"Peanut butter and jelly is good," the girl announced. "No crust, though, please."

Claire raised her eyebrows as she led her companion to the kitchen. _What an odd, odd request_. "Why no crust?"

Kate shrugged. "Cause that's just how I like it. It tastes better that way."

"Oh. Well, then." Dutifully, Claire brought a jar of peanut butter and of jelly with two slices of bread. Thankfully, they had been bought just before Trent's departure; she'd had no intention of going to market lately, and no real motive outside basic need. Apathy tended to leak into those bastions of the soul while emotion was taxing so much elsewhere. It hadn't the heart to handle both sides.

"And cut it triangular, please."

Knife suspended over the little meal, Claire blinked, turning to Kate once more. "You can't _possibly_ expect that to make a difference in how it tastes," she accused.

"Well," Kate shrugged, "that's just how I like things. It can't make that big of a difference to you, can it?"

Claire's tongue fumbled a bit over her words. "W-well, no, but—"

"Then why not eat it cut it into triangles?" Kate persisted. "Why can't you?"

Claire bit her lip. "Fine. Triangular it is."

Watching Kate eat felt almost intrusive, and though she'd brought out food to eat herself, Claire wondered at how she couldn't have an appetite after eating next-to-nothing for at least twenty-four hours. At some point, the hunger would surely strike her at once, but for now the apple sat in her hand idly. At any rate, Kate didn't seem to mind being watched; she felt free to get jelly stains on her cheeks and chew with her mouth open and wipe peanut butter off her hands onto her dress.

"So, when did you get your kitty?" Claire asked, grasping at straws for conversation.

"Yesterday," Kate replied through mouthfuls. "Ms. Romana gave her to me." She wiped her mouth on her arms and grinned. "She already had too many cats, and I offered to take the kitty in."

"Oh." A pause. "Well, that was nice of your mother to let you get a cat."

"No, Sam doesn't want me to have any pets," Kate corrected her.

"Sam?"

"You know, my mom. Sam."

Claire wasn't sure what shocked her most: that a child would call her parents by their first names, or that she'd keep a pet when her parents clearly told her not to. "Wh—when did you start calling her Sam?"

"When she started calling me Kate. Don't you call people by their names, too?"

"Yes, but—"

"But?" Kate repeated with a frown. "But what?"

Claire opened her mouth to speak and thought of all the things one did and did not do and all the etiquette adults silently expected you to follow before saying, "You know, I'm not even sure I know that, myself."

* * *

"What do you _mean_ you've found no leads?" Nami rubbed her temples with a sigh and tried—desperately—to remain calm as she spoke into the cell phone's speaker. "Listen, the primary suspect is so obvious he could stand out anywhere—white hair, fur coat, and toting a girl barely old enough to walk. How the hell could he just disappear in the wilderness like that? Don't you tell me that I—!" The redhead fumed and finally shut the phone closed, livid. "Idiots."

She'd done her part. She'd established the story, and how more basic could it have been? Part of Nami felt disappointed at its simplistic plot—it had seemed so much more sinister, much darker when Claire had kept her silence. Now, all Nami could do was point a very convincing finger at Skye the Phantom Thief…and that was it. The man had no family. No friends. No home. No career. No links, no shackles, no bounds.

_What if he's left the region? What if he's already past the border?_

"I'm such a pessimist," Nami muttered to herself; but hadn't thinking the worst helped her career, not hindered it? When deaths were reported to her or rapes or what-have-you, she could keep her iron expression because she expected no less. Why have high hopes? Why expect good tidings when they were so often bad?

Things still delighted her, though. The sea, for one, always calmed her. That was why now, after dealing with useless agents, she found herself there, drinking its majesty in. Light played tricks upon an ocean's surface, reflecting in an almost blinding way in the hours of the day.

"_Sometimes I think you're a ghost, you haunt this place so much."_

Her arms wrapped tight about herself, the autumn breeze playing with the edges of her jacket. Maybe she could call herself a ghost, if she really wanted to—she was pale, cold, and certainly lonely enough to be one. _Lonely_. Funny how she didn't mind labeling herself that, when the whole world seemed to throw fits at its two syllables.

People were drugs: you abused them, relied on them, expected them to fix your life when all they really did was complicate it further. Rarely did you use them wisely, and even more rarely used them only when necessary. Sometimes Detective Stone felt not using them at all was the only wise and necessary choice to make.

"_Why don't you come with me, Nami? We can just hang out, if you want. I'll play you music, or we can grab a drink, or just sit here if you want."_

Nami knelt down on the ground and picked up a single, smooth stone. Tossing it lightly in her hand, she scanned the water before throwing it forward in a single, swooping motion—sending it skipping over its ripples and wakes. Five jumps. Almost six. Hadn't she once been able to hit eight without breaking a sweat?

"_You can't say no forever. You don't have a reason to, Nami."_

"_Maybe you just don't like what that reason is."_

"Ah! Knew I'd find you here."

She cringed at his voice and shut her eyes, immediately mapping out an escape route. "Gustafa. I thought I told you—"

"You _always_ tell me to get lost," the musician finished with a laugh. "I just don't listen. Guess that's my problem, not yours, huh?"

The wind tugged at his green jacket and the frays of his striped shirt, and he held down his hat to save it from the breeze's grasp. Nami sighed; she was too old to run blindly away from disasters, and yet she'd love nothing more than to take a breakneck stride all the way to her safe, lockable room. But she was an adult, and adults didn't get that luxury.

"Listen, Gustafa. I'm tired of this. I don't see why _you_ aren't, but I am. The last thing I'm looking for is a complication in my life right now, and I need all my wits for this case."

"The case. Ah." The guitarist scratched the back of his neck in thought. "So what was your excuse a few years ago, then? You know, before you got a fancy job in the legal world?"

"If you want to be bitter, can we do this another time?"

"Well, excuse me for interrupting your little moment with the ocean." His normally laughing voice had taken a darker turn, and Nami shivered at its sound. "Is the great Detective Nami Stone too grand to spend a moment with an eccentric guy like me?"

"Gustafa…"

"What is it?" he insisted. "No, I just want the answer to this one question and I'll back off. I promise. I swear. Just tell me why I'm such anathema to you, and I'll stop feeding you that poison. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Nami ran her fingers through her fiery curls, her voice losing its stability and calm. "I…I can't answer that."

"Why not? Don't you know why?"

"Of course I know why!" she retorted. "That doesn't make it any easier for me to say. Or any more valid, in your eyes." She should have run. Hell with dignity; she should have dashed off into the hills as soon as his words reached her ears. People needed too much; people demanded too many sacrifices. People required too much love. "Gustafa…I know what that look in your eyes means. I know what you expect when you wrap your arm around me, and when you speak sweet words, and—damn it, I…" Her breathing hitched, and she turned away. "These things come easy for you, Gustafa. For some of us, it's like learning a new language. I don't think I can make sense of it. Honestly, I not even sure if I _want_ to."

Deep breaths, nice calming breaths—there it was, composure once again. Nami let her blue eyes bore into his as she admitted, finally, "I don't think I'm able to love. Not like you can, and not like most people can. I can't sacrifice. I can't give. In short, I can't love. It's nothing personal against you; it's just who I am. And I accept that. The question is, Gustafa, can you?"

His lips moved to form words, but Gustafa paused, his expression unreadable. The ocean crashed in the silence before he spoke, "So you can't love? No one, not even the most attractive and seductive man on the planet, can bring you to your knees?"

"No one."

"I don't believe that." Gustafa shook his head. "Frankly, I don't think that's possible."

"For God's sake, if you don't want the truth, then don't ask for it. I've told you everything I can, and if that's not enough, then I don't know _what_ is!"

Gustafa studied her, and Nami held her chin up high, unwilling to back down. He could rationalize it as he liked. He could blame it on her parents, her personality, whatever he preferred. _As long as he gives up_, Nami thought, _he can do whatever he likes_.

"I've heard your words," he began slowly. "But I think, Nami, I'd rather see your actions."

Maybe she'd never known what it was supposed to feel like, but even if she had, Nami could have sworn that the same rush of energy would have burst within her as Gustafa placed his mouth upon hers. Reflexes were dulled; she squirmed, but the scratch of his beard on her cheek and the warm intoxicating taste of his tongue were such beautiful, foreign delights—instinct took over, and Nami felt her body crush itself against his chest, mouth hungrily reaching for his.

_Stop. I need to stop._

Her eyes squeezed themselves shut, not daring to see how close they two had become, denying that any of this was or could be happening. This wasn't _Nami_ returning his affections; this was someone else possessing her body, and she was merely watching it take place from the safe confines her mind. She wouldn't do such a thing. She wouldn't fall for something as simple as this.

_Stop. You're encouraging him—STOP._

His arm had snaked its way about her waist, and somehow that simple ordinary reaction triggered a reflex; her eyes startled open wide, and her hand slapped him hard on the cheek. "That was uncalled for," she hissed. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I'm telling you right now that what we just did never happened. We're going to forget about it and move on with our lives, and you are never going to hold me that way again. Never."

"It took you _that_ long to slap me though, didn't it?" Gustafa replied, rubbing his cheek gingerly. "You didn't enjoy it all?"

"Enjoyment has nothing to do with anything. Especially love." Her skin felt hot, burning, sinful. Yet a thrill had begun to surge through her body, and it ached at the passing of this first—and final, it _had_ to be final—moment of passion. "It's instinct."

"It's also instinct to run away," Gustafa reminded her gently. "But, in my experience, isn't running normally what you do in that situation?"

"If I choose to live my life never, ever lov—_doing_ that again, then it's my business. It's not yours." Nami put her hand on her hip and smirked. "And speaking as a detective, I'd just like to say you are lucky as hell that I'm not pressing charges of sexual assault on you."

"Lucky, maybe. Or maybe, deep down inside, you just can't bring yourself to hurt me."

"No, Gustafa," Nami sighed out as she turned to go. "Maybe I've just done it enough already."

* * *

He was going to propose.

She'd learned by accident long ago, visiting just early enough to see him sleeping in bed with his hat over his eyes. Part of her melted at his tiny little snores—so like a child's—and yet the other, more dominant, side of Nami told her to leave the sleeping man alone and come back later.

Yet that _color_ had caught her eye.

The sunlight pouring in from the window caught the blues perfectly, causing the azure to outshine even the most dazzling sapphire. Hesitantly she crept forward, and her fingers touched plumes—yes, yes, this was real; this wasn't fake. A blue feather. A proposal.

For her.

Nami didn't let herself cry often. As a child, she'd learned early on that only certain girls were allowed to sob their eyes out; not everyone had a Prince Charming willing to overlook whiny habits and weakness. Yet that day, when she ran to the Inn and packed every object in her suitcase that could possibly fit before sprinting to the next boat, she found the tears couldn't stop running.

She'd told herself she'd never come back. She'd thrown herself into her career, but her career had thrown her here, and now Detective Stone was forced not only to answer this kidnapper's riddle, but one she ignored a long time ago.

Leaving had been her last resort. But that, Nami knew, was only because she would have found herself telling this foolish musician 'yes,' despite everything she knew to be true, logical, and honest in this world.

What else could her heart have let her do?

* * *

_You're getting too close to her._

Skye stared out his window and watched, despite himself, the figure of Gwen bounding on horseback through the village streets. He knew this irregular heartbeat far too well, and the smile that presented itself whenever even her name was mentioned. All women were beautiful to Skye, yes, but few attracted him so wholly as now. After all, the last one had been…well. The last one had _been_, and that was that. Things were fair now. Things were balanced.

"What do you think, princess?" the thief asked aloud to the toddler sitting beside him. "Are you tired of this place? Would you like to travel and see the world? Daddy wouldn't mind showing it to you. We could leave at any time without a trace."

_Except I've already left a trace. One about as obvious as can be as soon as you set foot in this village._

Leaving. It was the only choice. The only logical choice, anyway. Staying here with that Gwen girl, well, that would be his selfish wants, not his and Claire's needs. The little girl made low, worried sounds from his side and Skye patted her fondly, his brain on overdrive. Leaving. Yes. But when?

_Slip out of a crowd. That'll do it._

If the whole village were massed in one place, then how could anyone notice if he flew the town when no one was looking? Who would stop him? Who would care?

But when?

"Evenin', Steiner!"

Gwen breathed in heavily, cheeks flushed, and dropped her riding gear on the table. "I reckon Bob is going to have to practice loads to beat me this year. Fall Horse Race, here I come!"

"The Horse Race," Skye breathed, grinning. "Yes, the Race will be _perfect_, won't it?"

Quite perfect indeed.

* * *

The house seemed quiet with Kate gone. Quiet, maybe, was an understatement, but Claire found herself wondering as she organized her bookshelf why adults and children see in such different lights. When was the last time she'd believed anything "just because"? Or thought she could grow up to be a princess, or a movie star, or a supermodel? Decided triangles tasted better than squares?

Willow would be reaching that age soon. Well, soon enough, anyway, and Claire had been determined to think positively about the return of her baby girl. The amount of tears she'd shed in this season alone alarmed her, and with nothing to cling to but that resolute candle of hope, Claire found herself rekindling it daily. Maybe she'd hear of her today. After lunch. Waking up in the middle of the night. Sometimes she wondered what her baby could be seeing, doing, hearing now—? Was she smiling, was she scared? Was she still wearing her pink footie pajamas?

Other questions Claire ignored pointedly: what would happen if Willow was found and Trent divorced her? Would he want full custody? And if he did, would any jury in their right mind give a baby to a lying, cheating, emotionally unstable mother over a calm and collected doctor?

"_You think too much_," Kate had said earlier. Maybe there was some truth in that.

It had been unexpectedly nice, Claire admitted, to see that girl at her door. She needed something positive, something innocent. Fresh, new. She felt too jaded to appreciate life in the way this little girl seemed to, and maybe, by watching her, she could catch those beautiful moments like stars in the palm of her hand.

Wiping the dust of books on her overalls, Claire stood up and surveyed her handiwork: alphabetical by author. Flawlessly done. Now she supposed it made sense to go out and do her farm work—something she'd been severely ignoring. Just remove the weeds. Water the dying plants. Let them grow.

The door opened, and Claire almost stepped forward when a tiny sound pierced the air. She looked below her.

There, in a smiling bundle of black fur, was Kate's cat.


	10. Chapter 10: Trust

**Note: **Well! Be happy I changed the schedule, because I was told that today is Saturday, not Friday. The holidays completely brainwashed me, I swear. Give me a week, and I'll be a normal person, promise. Er, normal as I get, anyway. As far as this chapter goes, it isn't my favorite, but I think I'm biased just 'cause it was hard to pull out. Hopefully, you'll like it anyway.

And special thanks to **AsianFlipGurl**, my 100th reviewer! I owe all of you for supporting me thus far. So, thanks. :)

_**Chapter Ten: **__Trust_

"Thanks for taking him in, lady. Sam would've freaked if she saw that I'd been hiding her in the house."

Claire smiled as she watched Kate petting her little kitty cat and murmured, "It's no trouble at all. I've got enough room in this house, that's certain."

"Yeah. The doctor is at work, like, a lot."

"Yes. Yes, he is."

"_I—I'm sorry, Ms. Claire, but he doesn't seem to be leaving anytime soon,"_ Elli had said over the phone._ "If you want to talk to him, then…"_

But they'd already talked. Claire saw what had happened the last time she'd opened her mouth, hadn't she?

Things were simpler alone, anyway. Listening to Kate talk about whatever Kate decided to talk about and tending her once-forgotten farm were far easier than sharing an awkward silence with her husband or pretending that her world wasn't crumbling around her. "So, do you think the cookies are done yet?"

"Didn't you set a timer for them?" Kate insisted, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Um. I think."

"Geez, you _think_?" The girl dashed to Claire's kitchen and shouted shrilly, "You didn't! You didn't! You didn't!"

"I heard you the first time," Claire muttered. Standing up from her chair, she ambled towards where Kate was pointing and raised an eyebrow. "Okay. So we put them in at…wait. An hour ago, wasn't it?"

"An _hour_?!"

The oven door opened, and both gagged on the taste of smoke and charred dough. Armed with cooking mitts, Claire brought the blackened goodies to the counter and shut the oven closed with a bang. "Um. Maybe an hour was too long?"

"No kidding, lady."

Both sat at the table and stared at each other, lips curving into smiles as they fell into fits of laughter. "I haven't done that in so long," Claire chuckled. "Why, if I could remember the last time I baked cookies…"

"You shouldn't have offered to, then!" Kate reminded her with a giggle. "It's not like all kids absolutely _have_ to have cookies to be happy."

Claire started a bit at that, Kate's words strangely striking her. "Wh-what do you mean by that?"

"You're trying too hard, lady." Kate pursed her lips and looked at the charcoal-ridden desserts again. "I know you like having me over, but making people happy isn't as hard as you think it is. Like, taking in Fluffy. That made me very, _very_ happy." She grinned. "Sometimes it's as easy as, I don't know, telling a girl a story."

"A…story?"

"But not one of those fairytales," Kate continued, making a face. "All the princesses are always wimps, and the witches and dragons are _so_ not scary. Nah, tell me something…" She paused in thought.

"Something what?"

"Real," Kate finished. "Tell me something _real_. No one ever does that."

Real. The woman glanced out her window; what was real that wasn't painful anymore? "Um. I could tell you about…oh, I don't know. I can't think of any 'real' stories."

"Tell me about you, then!" the girl prodded. "Tell me about your life, or your childhood, or something! You know about _you_, right?"

Claire closed her eyes. What could she tell this girl—about her husband leaving her, about her child being stolen from her, about making the worst decision of her life in a moment of passion? "When I was a little girl," she spoke softly, "I…I used to do everything right. Absolutely everything that my father told me to do, I did."

Kate wrinkled her nose. "Ew. That sounds boring."

"It was," Claire agreed. "So, one day, I—I got sick of it." Images floated into her consciousness: a bright snow-blanketed ground, a tall and imposing brick house, a man's harsh and demanding voice. "My parents didn't like for me to go out. They had so many rules: about practicing instruments, learning languages, getting ahead in school. There was no time for me. There was no time for fun. But one day, in winter, I heard that a neighbor of mine was holding a holiday party. And everyone in the entire neighborhood was invited—me, my parents, everyone. I wanted to go and spend time with kids my age. I wanted everything that my family was forcing on me to _stop_ for just one day. So I snuck out the door…"

The sled was beneath her body once again, the scarf once more looped about her tiny pale neck. Her hair was once again frizzy with youth, and her cheeks lit with Jack Frost's sting. She flew down the hill, all the while her ears straining to hear the sound of music and laughter, and her eyes drinking in the lights below. "And I walked in. No one really knew who I was, but they knew my parents' last name, and I remember…I remember trying new foods, and meeting people I'd lived by my entire life without even knowing their names and faces."

"_Hey, I'm Julia!" _Another tiny face met hers, and Claire cowered a bit at its brightness. "_Did you just move here? I didn't know any other girls lived here that were my age!" _

"I was timid, at first," Claire murmured. "A girl came up to me, a sweet little blonde absolutely bubbling over with energy, and we began talking. Being homeschooled, I wasn't used to that. The only people I usually got to see were relatives, and they were either much older than I or far younger."

"_We should hang out more. You're a lot of fun to talk to! Hey, do you go to the local school around here…? No? Ohh, you're homeschooled! Lucky. Wish my parents would let me get out of homework."_

They were ordinary little conversations, of course. But they were the first few she'd ever experienced, and Claire had savored each simple sentence like newfound rain after a drought. "So, what happened next?" Kate asked. "You met another girl. Then?"

"_Claire!" _The voice was booming, furious, enraged. Once again, she was just a tiny wand of a girl, trembling under that man's snarling accusal. _"What gave you the idea that running off with strangers was a good idea? What made you think that your mother and I would be alright with that?"_

"_I…"_

"_You what? For God's sake, Claire, your mother and I are doing our best to make sure you're prepared by high school, and you—you don't care. Who makes the money around here? Who worked all his life to give you what you have now? Who do you owe?"_

Then came the sting of his hand, followed by the sting of more words, and the ache that still hadn't quite healed today. "Then…then my father found out, and I didn't dare do anything like that again. The end."

Kate's eyes narrowed. "That's not a very good story."

"No, it's not." Claire sighed, her eyes downcast. Her fingers toyed with the fringe of the tablecloth, the memories now rekindled in her long dormant past. "But it _is_ real."

* * *

Papa hadn't always been so mean. Not all the time. Some days, Claire actually loved being with him—the outdoors brought out his kinder side, she thought. Fishing was a sort of middle ground, where he accepted her as something more equal than dependent. He could be happy with her, sometimes.

It wasn't Claire's fault that her mother was ill, was it? Her father didn't have the energy to deal with anything short of perfection. Her mother didn't have energy at all.

Things could've been worse. Her father could've been a drunk. He could've been a wife-beater. He could've harassed her. He could've done more than slapped her around a bit when she broke a few rules or failed a few tests. There could have been more blood.

Was complete satisfaction such a terrible thing to give him, then?

"_Yes, sir. No, sir. I'm done, sir. I got an A on my test, sir. Aren't you proud?_"

Things got simpler in high school. At home, anyway. Classmates saw her as some sort of unapproachable brainiac, and maybe it was easier to be seen that way. There were no Julias, certainly, but here and there Claire found a kind face, a few gentle words.

No, her childhood wasn't perfect. But whose was?

Kate had left hours ago. The cookies were still left out, and Claire picked up one absently and took a bite. Immediately she regretted it; her teeth couldn't even break the surface, and it tasted like ash in her mouth.

People weren't like cookies, of course. You could do everything you were supposed to do, and a child could still turn out wrong. You could grow up different than everybody else and still come out whole. You weren't the product of your parents' choices…were you?

"I'm not," Claire defended herself quietly as the cat looked up at her. "I'm—I'm not a mistake. I'm me, aren't I?"

_Yet who am I, anyway? A liar, a cheater, a mother, a loner? Something ruined? Something broken?_

Standing up, Claire took the tray of cookies in her hands and promptly threw them in the garbage. The farm needed more work done, and she needed a distraction. Maybe that was all she'd ever looked for—something to keep her from coming close to fixing any of her problems.

Well. She'd never had trouble finding those, had she?

* * *

"You nervous?"

Gwen laughed shakily, the answer to that question too obvious for her to bother saying aloud. Her uncle patted her on the shoulder in reassurance, his smile all she could center in on amidst all the horses whinnying and the villagers betting around her. Her heart felt it was on overdrive; her legs were jelly beneath her. "I just hope nothing distracts me, I guess," the blonde allowed as she took in a deep breath. "I want to do my best."

He embraced her roughly and ruffled her hair. "You will, Gwen. You'll beat 'em, and I know it."

_He's said the exact same thing for the past few years now, _the cook thought to herself, but she answered, "Thanks, Uncle Doug. But, um…" Her head craned to see over his shoulder, and she sighed. "He's not…coming…is he?"

"Steiner?" Doug frowned. "He said he would, but I'm guessing he's running late for some reason. Don't let it worry you though, Gwen—it's probably something important."

"Yeah. Probably." But he'd promised. Silly as it was, he'd promised, and to Gwen, that still meant something. Sure, it was _probably_ just a rebound, but a part of her wanted him there more than anyone else. Just to reassure her. "But if I'm losing, I'm blaming him for worrying me."

"You won't lose," Doug grunted. "Don't think like that. And—oh, Gwen! Aren't those your friends?"

Katie and Eve were giggling next to a tan young man that Gwen recognized as Dan from his red bandana and wide pants. Eve kept tossing her golden ponytail this way and that, and Katie was playing wingman expertly, as always. About the only 'good luck' she could expect from them right now would be, "Oh, Dan's betting on you! Do great, okay?"

She loved her girls, but when they got with a member of the opposite sex, their heads got side-tracked. Easily.

"Um, I think the racers are going this way," Gwen spoke instead, jerking her head towards Bob and Tina in another corner. "I'll see you after the race, okay?"

"Okay, honey. Good luck!"

Her heart sped up a bit as she approached Bob, but Gwen kept telling herself that it was okay to be nervous—after all, this was a _race_ day, and not an ordinary one—and asked, casually, "Your horse ready?"

"Ah, yeah, Charcoal is doin' fine." He wiped his brow and grinned, a tall and imposing figure before her. Charcoal reared his dark head and eyed her with friendly eyes, and Gwen petted him gently in response. "I think he missed you."

"You think?" Gwen beamed. His mane was silky between her fingers. "Yeah, my mare's over there, so I should probably go see her."

"Haven't seen Spice in awhile, myself."

"She's doing well," Gwen replied. "Her coat's a lot shinier this year, for what that's worth. A prettier red."

"You don't say." Bob paused for a moment, and Gwen watched, waiting to see if he'd bring up that giant elephant sitting between them both: her confession. "I—uh, I hear you went to the Full Moon Festival?"

Gwen crossed her arms. "Yeah. I did."

"I'm glad." Bob smiled and patted her on the head—something he'd done to her as a child. "I was worried for you, you know?"

"Don't be," the blonde answered. She'd thought being nervous about the race had unnerved her enough, but now, a far stranger emotion was tying her stomach into tiny impossible knots. She faked a smile, unwilling to admit her pain, and added quickly, "I—I mean, if there's going to be any worrying, it should be over you beating me this year—'cause it's _so_ not going to happen, Bob."

"That's a lotta talk for a little girl." Bob laughed. "You're going to have to work to win this year, Gwen. Me and Tina are at our best. Tina—oh, have you seen her horse, Silver?"

"Yeah," Gwen lied. "Real nice." The last thing on her agenda was checking out her competition's horse; she had enough to worry about already without Tina's impressive horse raising on her mind.

A large trumpet sounded, and Gwen flinched despite herself. "The amateur's race is starting," Bob stated, unfazed. "We've got a ways to go before it's our turn."

"Mhm." Gwen bit her lip and looked once more into the crowd for a certain pair of faces. Still not there. Still far away.

* * *

He had to travel light. This time, Skye would be certain to pack food, diapers, and a change of clothes—just in case. Last time, he'd made many mistakes. This time, he intended to make none.

"Come along, princess," Skye called, and his baby blinked her big blue eyes uncomprehendingly. "We're going out now. Just you and me. Wouldn't you like that?"

His arms plucked her from her crib and she squirmed a bit, confused. Well, she could be confused if she liked; she wasn't even a year old, and Skye figured she'd forget about it once they were older and he'd found them a truly permanent home. Some place further away. Some place they could never be found.

_If such a place exists._

No, he would not think that. Thinking that would do no good, and right now, he needed to remain as optimistic as possible. "Which way do you want to go, Claire? We can go North, South, East, West—why, if you want, I'll take a boat and we can travel the sea. What sounds good to you, darling?"

Something clouded her blue eyes, but Skye brushed it off as he gathered her into his arms. This was the only logical method of action to take, after all. Running, running, running—how else had he survived in his chosen career for so long? How petty it seemed now, though, how trite; Skye hadn't kept a single one of those ridiculous heirlooms he'd pilfered back in the Valley. They'd been worthless to him. Sparkles of the moment.

If he got away with this, Claire would be there for him _forever_. Not even diamonds promised so much in their eternity.

He had to leave. There was no choice. Not even if Gwen—well. Gwen.

"_I just can't imagine any of it. I can't imagine that kind of rejection or that kind of pain. It's not possible for me. Here I am, in my own safe little world, where the worst thing that can happen is losing your childhood sweetheart."_

Skye closed his eyes, and Claire looked at him blankly, unable to see the same evening Skye could as his hands remembered the warmth of her skin and the wet tears that sprung from her eyes. Had he ever held anything so pure, apart from this child in his arms? Had he ever corrupted anything so sweet?

The lights were off; the doors closed. The thief allowed himself one final look behind him, and without thinking, he found a tiny pair of shining earrings in his hands—earrings that he'd only seen worn once, one night.

Skye smiled to himself wryly. Old habits died hard.

* * *

Flanked by Tina on one side and Bob on the other, Gwen found herself vaguely imagining a set of wheels in the very same design: the one in the center—the third—being naturally useless. Her fingers tightened on the reins, and Spice lifted her majestic head in confusion. "Don't worry, girl," Gwen spoke through gritted teeth. "We're winning this year. We're winning it all."

"Hope you didn't bet too high," Tina teased with a well-meaning smile, and Bob barked a laugh in agreement. "Tell you what. If I or Bob win, just give us a free lunch at Doug's, and we'll call it even."

"No thank you, but I plan on winning enough prize money to pay off my own debts, thanks." Gwen snorted. "Not that I plan on having any, after this race."

"Man, Tina, Gwen is really into it this year," Bob whistled. "We'd better stop talking and start concentrating, eh?"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The mayor's voice rang out clear over the crowd, and Gwen set her eyes on the course ahead. A single brown line. A straight shot down the field. Simple as could be. She could do this. She could, she could, she _could_. "…And now that I've gone over the rules, can I get a drum roll please? On your marks…"

"Prepare yourself," Gwen whispered, leaning forward.

"Get set…"

Her legs clamped tighter about Spice's body, her heart beating like a drum.

"GO!"

Everything rushed forward in a single motion—Tina, Bob, the crowd, everything blurred as Gwen became one with the moving creature beneath her. Breathe in, breathe out, kick in the stirrups. _Go, Spice, c'mon baby, let's win it! We can do this. I know we can._

Tina and Silver had just begun to lag behind, just enough for Gwen to let out a little sigh of relief. Too soon, Gwen realized belatedly, as Bob took the opportunity to bound ahead on Charcoal's powerful body. Immediately hope sank within her like a stone; this was a repeat of all those past years, that same disappointment all over again.

Except this time, she _couldn't give up_.

"Hya!" Gwen shouted, spurring a startled Spice further ahead. Hoofbeats pounded through Gwen's ears, but she focused on the finish line. Everything else was silence. Everything else didn't matter.

"Look at that! Hey, Duke, look at my niece, heh-heh!"

She wasn't past Bob, but they were neck-and-neck, and Gwen found herself ignoring the sweat dripping down into her eyes and nose as she was suddenly empowered by a rush of adrenaline. _It's not too far away now. It's…it's in _sight_, and no one's there._

_Not yet._

For a long time, Gwen would remember the smell of the dirt kicked up in the course, the touch of perspiration on her brow, and the sound of Bob breathing heavily alongside her. The screams were deafening, the cheers unparalleled, as the wining horse broke through the finish line in a flurry of red ribbon, golden hair, and the black of a lady's riding boots.

It had been done. Gwen threw back her head and laughed, the congratulations of her competitors and her peers surrounding her in a haze of white noise.

How was it possible, Gwen wanted to know, that in mere minutes a lifetime's goal could be achieved?

* * *

They were close to the track. Too close, Skye feared, as Claire furrowed her brow in curiosity. "No. No, we can't go over there," he hissed into her ear, trying to be as quiet as possible. The faint sound of whinnying horses made Claire's eyes light up and she cooed in protest. "No. I make the rules here, my sweet, and I say we must go."

Which way was that exit again—? The thief held the map to the light and frowned; hadn't they already gone that way? Left, maybe…or was it right…?

A shrill sound shattered the silence, and Skye swore as he crouched down the in the bushes, panic seizing. His heartbeat slowed a bit as he realized the race had ended, started, or _something_, and that people were just cheering for the hell of it, not to call him out.

Still. It unnerved him.

If he could only find that damn exit, then he wouldn't be shaking like a rookie burglar on his first job. A map in one hand, and an uncomfortable Claire in the other, Skye felt far from the capable thief his title implied. "Phantom Thief Skye," was he? "Vulnerable Over-burdened Babysitter," more like it.

"But really, she did great out there, huh?"

Ah! _Voices_. Skye knelt down closer to the ground, willing his heart to slow its beating just for a moment. He could see two pairs of shoes from the ground…high-heels and some men's loafers. Not exactly loafers, if Skye was really getting nit-picky, but he couldn't think of the word for those brown slippers on the stranger's feet.

"Yeah, your friend was a good bet! I might have enough money to last me through…" He paused, counting on his fingers. "Through this week!"

A shrill giggle escaped from his companion's lips, and Skye threw up a little inside. Why was he, an honest thief, being subjected to this? He had to leave. He had no time for this couple's conversation. They needed to run off and—

"Gwen was pretty stoked about winning her first race."

Suddenly Skye found himself listening.

"I'm just glad I didn't bet on that other guy. Bob, right?" A laugh. "Man, I would've bet on him in seconds flat if you hadn't told me about that Gwen girl, Eve. I owe you, baby."

Skye couldn't really see—not that he minded this at all—but the soft sounds that followed this conversation were indicative enough of kissing and fondling for him to hate being hidden in this thicket just a little more than before, and just enough to make him wish he hadn't wasted his time stealing Gwen's stupid earrings.

"Hey, _you_ guys are definitely having a good time." A third pair of shoes—boots—entered the scene, and Skye caught his breath as he recognized their owner. Oh, damn. "Break it up. There might be kids out here, y'know?"

"It's nothing they wouldn't see on cable in the city," the man mumbled.

"Dan, this is Flowerbud. Just let the village keep its innocent shtick a little longer, m'kay?" Gwen admonished them with a laugh. "Ah, I'm kidding, do what you want. Just don't make me watch!"

A happy little sound came from baby Claire's mouth at Gwen's familiar voice, and Skye froze, goosebumps prickling up and down his body as his hand gently closed itself over her mouth. _Shut up, darling. Shut up, shut up, shut up. _

"Anyway, so did you like the race?" Gwen continued. "I hear Eve made you one of my supporters or something."

"Yes. Thanks to you, I've got myself enough for a hotel room in the city for the weekend, and I can't wait to go out and—"

"—Gamble it all off," Eve finished for him, rolling her eyes. "Can you believe him?"

"Hey, hey. Happiness doesn't come cheap, baby."

"It does if _Dan's_ paying," Eve whispered loudly to the blonde, and they both began to laugh all the louder, Claire's ears perking up once more. She wriggled about in Skye's arms, and he held his hand over her mouth tighter; this was for her own good, and—

"Ow!" Tiny teeth bit the thief's hands, and his outcry was followed by a loud shout from the baby's small body. "Dammit, look what you've done!"

Skye swore, and he turned to see a confused pair of red eyes staring down his own. _Think fast as hell. _"Fair maiden, it's good to see you. You would not believe all the trouble I've gone to for baby Claire today."

"Would it explain why you're hiding in a bush and why you didn't show up at the race?" she retorted flatly. Eve and Dan were whispering in the back, and to Skye's chagrin, he could tell that this time, the conversation was centered around _him_. Gwen held her chin high, and added, "If you even care, I won. First time."

"So I've heard," Skye murmured, mind racing. "I'm sorry about missing it. I truly, truly am. Baby Claire wanted a better view, and the crowds were so full that I said we should watch from the hill, with…a picnic." He pointed to the food packed on his back and smiled winningly. "We never found the right spot. See, Claire dropped her pacifier somewhere near here, and we haven't found it."

"Great. So you lied to me, left me standing alone with my uncle at the race thinking I'd do just fine without any other outside support, and it was all because you were looking for a _pacifier_ that we don't even own. Yeah, _that_ makes total sense." The cook frowned a bit and turned to the companions behind her. "Hey, you guys can go if you want. I've got this covered." The couple exchanged knowing glances and left Gwen and Skye in peace, the former of the two setting her eyes on Skye's unflinchingly. "Were you ever going to show up? Really?"

He paused, the answer weighing on his mind for a moment before being set free: "No."

"Thought so." She leaned back and let him crawl from under the bushes before sighing and adding, "Look, Steiner, I…ah, crap, I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I mean, I can't force you to watch me race just because—" Her voice broke off, and she laughed a little to herself, shaking her head. "I'm so bad at this. Goddess, I really, truly suck at admitting this stuff. But, um, for some reason, I really wanted you here today. I don't know why. But it hurt when you weren't there, you know?" She shrugged. "It's not a big deal or anything. I'm just—I'm sorry if I got too mad at you. I over-thought it."

"For what it's worth, I _did_ want to come," Skye answered softly.

Skeptical, Gwen raised an eyebrow. "Did you really?"

"I did. And that, I suppose, is why I didn't go." Skye eyed her, this simple village girl, and he considered how many times she'd been lied to in her life—why, she could probably count them all on one hand. With the truth so common, there was no reason for her to mistrust him, and yet, despite all that, Skye found himself unwilling to dupe her quite as readily as he had before. He frowned and weighed truth in his hands, pondering just how much he could give away without coming clean. "See, I'm…I'm too close to you, Gwen. I'm not used to being so close to people. I had every intention, actually, of leaving today because of that."

A little gasp strangled out of Gwen's throat, and Skye kept his eyes on Claire as her hands reached for the cook's arms eagerly. "You…wait, you were going to _leave_?"

"I was." The answer hit the blonde like a slap, and she staggered back, recoiling. "See, Gwen, it's not so simple." He paused and viewed her once more, smirking a bit as the new truth spun itself in his mind. "Well, maybe it is. But it's foolish."

"What is? I mean, if you're going to leave, then you had to have good reason—"

"You reminded me of her."

Gwen bit her lip, the identity of 'her' something she could guess far too well. Her eyes quickly averted his own and she played with her ponytail, stammering, "O-oh. I suppose, well, that's a bad thing, isn't it?"

"No," he disagreed. "Just a painful thing."

Wasn't it strange how, one moment, someone could be the love of your life, and the next, you could hate them with an all-consuming fire? At one point in his life, Skye would've handed the world to that farmer on a silver platter; now, he had no qualms with yanking it out from under her. Maybe describing Gwen as Claire was too generic: blondes weren't like all blondes. Yet, since when did this have anything to do with hair color at all?

"The first time I met her…she threatened me, too. Just like you did." Skye chuckled to himself at the memory and shook his head. "Well, you did a far better job—I'll grant you that. We argued constantly, but she…she was calmed easily by gentle words and by a gentle touch. Do you know, it almost felt like—God, for the first time in my life!—that someone actually needed me?"

"_You're not the marrying type."_

It had been a cold, sobering blow to his ego. _It's a double-edged sword_, Skye thought to himself bitterly. _When you give someone the power to heal you, you give them the power to hurt you as well._

"But…but people _do_ need you, you know?" Gwen flushed a bit as he turned her way, and insisted, "Baby Claire needs you. She loves you like crazy; you'd have to be blind not to notice it. And—and of course the Inn wasn't the same before you. Plus, sometimes I…" Her hand squeezed his, Claire's tiny fingers curling about them both. The blonde smiled, embarrassed, and mumbled, "I don't like it when you're gone. If you left, I'd miss having my…my kitchen buddy to talk to. I, well, I need you, too."

Honesty. How long had it been since someone had spoken to Skye so candidly, so freely? Skye couldn't remember. Was it possible for you to remember the first time you were lied to? There had to have been a moment, sometime. Yet the first time your parents held you in their arms and whispered, "I love you"—_that_ was the first shred of honesty you received in this world, wasn't it? When did the roles begin to switch? When did you start to remember lies instead of truths?

Sometimes, Skye decided as he hugged Gwen and his baby close, truth and fiction weren't all that different. Sometimes, strangely enough, they were the exact same thing.


	11. Chapter 11: Baby Steps

**Note: **Do you want to know something? I think I'm creeping towards the story's turning point on my non-published chapters. This story is going to be my longest I've ever handled, so I'm just kind of…eep! Sorry, I'm excited. The second half will be different than the first, and I think you'll know when you've reached it…but you guys have a bit to go before I give it to you. So please enjoy this week's chapter. Or don't. Your call.

_**Chapter Eleven: **__Baby Steps_

Skye the Phantom Thief would have crowned himself the king of bullshit over his latest little escape, if it weren't for one thing: it _wasn't_ a complete fake-out. Gwen did unnerve him. Gwen did remind him of Claire. Yet lately, it was by her contrast, and not her similarity. Sometimes, when he saw Gwen waving at him in the hallway, he'd have flashbacks of Claire turning tail at the sight of him; Gwen would smile and blush at his flatteries, whereas Claire would frown. Both were challenges, in their own way. Yet…

"Steiner! I've got to go, one sec—" The blonde paused in the hallway to glance at the clock and cursed under her breath, running back to her room again. "Aargh, where is my hairbrush? I can never find anything when I need it."

"Where are you going, my beauty?" the thief inquired.

Some more mumbling reached his ears, followed by an ecstatic, "Found it!" and a few quick brush strokes. "Katie's hosting the weekly get-together this week," she called from her room. "If I don't even _try_ to look nice, I'll look awful—and believe me, just standing next to Eve can make any woman look like a shrew." The cook rushed out, her fingers caught in a half-made ponytail, and she bit her lip. "Urgh, where's my—?"

Skye held forward a light, fuzzy piece of clothing in his hands. "Your coat, mademoiselle. The weather is supposed to be chilly this week."

"Is it?" Gwen commented. "Geez, I've lived here ever since the Inn opened, and yet you're the one who's already picked up on the nature signs. My perception skills officially suck."

"It wasn't too difficult to figure out," Skye laughed. "Winter starts this week. It's bound to get colder."

"Well, excuse me for ignoring the calendar for a day or two."

"Fine. You're excused," he teased. Gwen's eyes darted about again, and catching onto their panic, Skye walked up to the door and took her scarf off its hook. "And hanging on door number one…"

"Oh, thanks." She blushed a bit and wrapped the soft red fabric about her throat, a nice contrast to her cornsilk hair. "I'm just kinda disoriented today."

Skye raised an eyebrow. "Any reason?"

"Uh. Maybe." She shrugged and stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. "I guess, uh…well, I can't explain it. Does that make sense?"

"Not really."

"Darn." Gwen squinted at the clock again and sighed. "I'm going to be a little late, I think. Katie's going to freak; the pastries might get cold."

"Wouldn't want that."

"I don't mind that so much as the expression on Katie's face when I show up late. It's scary, Steiner. You have no idea." She caught his eye and grinned. "I'm kidding! Mostly."

"Well, I like Katie," Skye decided. "Your friends are quite amusing, fair maiden. Lovely company."

"So do you want to come?" The question was spoken casually, but Gwen's expression betrayed her where her words would not, her knees buckling beneath. "It'd be fun. Eve and Katie think you're the best thing that showed up here since Dan the Tan Man. And plus," she added conspiratorially, "there'll be _cookies_."

Skye frowned a bit. "See, I—" He, too, looked at the clock, and saw what Gwen had told him just ten minutes ago: his work hours had ended. Part of him, desperately, wanted to race to his bedroom and hold his little baby close, but Gwen…

"Claire can come, too. Bundle her up in a few blankets, and we're good to go," Gwen suggested. She cocked her head at his stunned expression and grinned. "What? You're easy to read."

Skye laughed, his smile wide. "Is that so, fair maiden?" And added, unspoken: _You have no idea how wrong you are._

* * *

Claire had, as a rule, stopped going to her husband for doctor's visits right about when they'd married. "_It'd be strange_," she'd protested weakly. "_I'd feel odd, being a patient instead of your wife._" Or now, as his separated partner. Could you call yourself a wife, still?

Dr. Hardy wasn't exactly the kind of doctor she'd have chosen to replace him, but in Forget-Me-Not there weren't many options: Dr. Hardy, Dr. Trent, or Do-it-yourself. Still, her body wasn't something she'd been taking very good care of lately, and the good doctor had called occasionally to remind her of her very, very overdue visit.

Twenty-three calls later, here she was.

"Your body's immune system is a bit weaker." He straightened up and surveyed her with his bright red mechanical eye. "I suppose all the stress has certainly led to that. Have you been eating regularly?"

The blonde shrugged, averting his eye—just that one, anyway. She didn't like what replaced that line of vision, though: very obvious, very casual boxer shorts. "I nibble on a few things throughout the day."

"Like?"

"A crop. An herb. Whatever I'm holding, I suppose." She supported her chin upon her hand and smiled weakly. "That's not good, is it?"

"Not really," the man grunted. "I want three meals a day. All the main food groups. And please, please avoid drinking." She turned to protest, and he silenced her with a wave of his hand. "Now, now. I know it was only once. But someone in your mental state could easily become dependent on something like alcohol."

She stared at him. "My mental state?"

"Lots of things have been happening right now, Claire. Your child, your husband, it's—" Dr. Hardy caught onto the hardened look in her eyes and broke off. "Lots of stress has been present in your life, that's all I'm saying. It's hard to maintain homeostasis when things aren't consistent."

"So I'm _crazy_?"

"No, no. That's not what I mean to say."

"But you implied it." With a groan, Claire laid her head to rest on the counter; Kate had come by earlier and unintentionally prepared her for this blow: "_I told Sam I was going to the farm, and she kept saying something about avoiding the crazy lady. You have a crazy lady living here? Since when?_" She should have expected an accountant's wife and a doctor in boxers to think alike. Ha, if a man who worked in flip-flops and underwear thought she was insane, then who _didn't_?

"Listen. My job is not to label people," Dr. Hardy continued, level. "It is to make sure their bodies are functioning properly, and if they aren't, to fix them." He glanced down at a folder in his hands and pursed his lips. "Pretty outstanding record you have, save for some bumps and bruises in your childhood. As I remember, they were from sports, right?"

Claire colored. "Yes."

"But it was your jaw that broke once, correct?"

"Well, yes." She folded her arms in her lap. "A ball hit me. What of it?"

Dr. Hardy stared at her for a long, hard moment. "How do you get a jaw injury from a ball," he inquired softly, "while running cross-country?"

"I tripped," she whispered. Spots began to obscure her vision; there were five red eyes staring at her now, it seemed. All of them blinked, the mouth beneath them frowning.

"Tell me exactly how you tripped, then, Ms. Claire," he asked her, voice gentle and calm as he sat beside her. "Your medical history begs to know."

* * *

Trent could count the amount of times he'd answered the Clinic's phone on one hand. It had been part of Elli's job, traditionally, to attend to the social aspect of the Clinic; as much as the doctor loved his patients, he hadn't the skills of an extrovert, nor did he want them. There were enough problems on Trent's agenda to warrant his attention, the least of which not including—

"The phone's for you."

Immediately he paled at the words, and mouthed a female name (_Claire?) _questioningly to his dutiful nurse. Smiling, she shook her head, and worded another name back: _Dr. Hardy_. Relief coursed through him with its cleansing song, and Trent walked forward to take the speaker from Elli's hands. "Hello, Hardy?"

"_Are you aware that your wife was mentally and physically abused as a child?"_

He blinked, the words not registering; this was the wrong Dr. Trent's office, someone else's wife. "I—I don't understand."

"_Well you should." _There was a rustling of papers over the phone's static: "_Her medical records as a child and adolescent seem innocent enough, until you look at the reasoning behind them. Just got the truth out of her a few hours ago. I don't think she even knew it was abuse, herself."_

His breathing halted for a moment. "You mean, she was—?"

"_No, not the kind you're thinking. It—well, it was mentally scarring, I will say that. Very stringent rules to follow growing up, and sometimes physical consequences for them. Sometimes as a punching bag, sometimes as a verbal target. It builds very shaky confidence for the victim, a very strong sense of dependency. And fear of rejection; whoo, let's not get started on _that_. Basically, it makes you emotionally fragile."_

"And the baby…"

"_That certainly doesn't help matters. And to be frank, Trent, neither does you leaving her. She's in a high state of depression—"_

"If you're trying to bring me back there," Trent replied softly, "I'd rather you didn't. I've got my own…mental problems…I'm sorting through."

"_Sure, sure. You mean postponing."_

Trent's voice tightened. "Dr. Hardy, I—!"

"_Calm down, Trent; I'm not making you do anything. I'm just saying is all. Actually, I'm calling to let you know of something I'm planning." _A pause. _"Would it bother you in the slightest if I called someone to visit with Claire? A psychiatrist, if you will."_

A psychiatrist for his wife. Good Goddess. His fingers toyed with the phone's cord, and Trent cleared his throat, the idea sinking in slowly and painfully. "Well. She's not in, uh, that terrible of a state, is she?"

"_Yes and no. She's recovering, I think, but I want her to have someone to speak with. Going alone to an empty house gives you ideas. We don't want those kinds of ideas going into your wife's head."_

"My wife?"

"_Well, she's still that, isn't she?"_

Trent sometimes found himself hard-pressed to answer that question. Yes, changing a person didn't mean changing a marriage? No, changing made a marriage invalid? What about hiding the person underneath all these masks? What did that do?

"I trust your judgment, Dr. Hardy. Do what you think is best."

"_Glad to hear it. I'm calling someone over from a city nearby, someone with experience in these kinds of problems. Things ought to go well, I think."_

'Things ought to go well.' How many times had Trent thought that, only to be proven wrong? "I certainly hope so. Good luck." A little click ended the call, and Trent cradled his head in his arms, letting out a big heavy sigh.

Abuse, huh? Abuse, affairs, and kidnapping. When had his life spun so terribly out of control? When did these words begin to describe the life he and his wife had lived? Peaceful, tranquil, simple—those were the words Trent missed now. Warm summer nights punctuated by kisses; strolls along a moonlit river; coming home to a freshly cooked meal and a soft embrace: why were these memories so distant now? What was it about grief that made happiness so difficult to conjure?

"Doctor Trent, is everything all right at the Valley?" Elli inquired, cocking her head at him. "Doctor Hardy sounded—"

"Claire isn't feeling well," he dismissed it quietly. "That's all."

_That's all. Nothing more_.

* * *

The case, Nami hated to admit, was getting colder by the day. Cold as the bleak winter sky; cold as the water gushing from the river into the ocean; cold as the tea she'd ignored pointedly for the past ten minutes. Cold, cold, cold. "So. Do you have any warm food here?"

She was answered with a vague shrug, and Nami sighed, looking away. Things had gotten chilly between her and the innkeepers as well; Ruby didn't seem to be pleased with the little warning Nami had given her before leaving years ago. The woman busied herself at the oven, sniffing her soup and frowning at some wrong spice or another. Once, she'd have asked Nami's opinion on its taste. Now, Nami'd be lucky to be asked the time of day.

Kicking her chair away, the redhead stood up and stomped out the door to be greeted by the icy breath of winter. She allowed herself a brief smile; she'd never dressed appropriately for the weather, had she?

"Hey! You must be dying in that worn-out vest of yours." The voice was familiar, but cheerier than the one she'd been preparing for. A young man stood behind her, grinning ear-to-ear, and he shook his long blonde locks from his eyes. "Going for a walk?"

"Probably," Nami answered him. "And Rock, I'm guessing that you're doing—wait. Nothing, am I right?"

"Yup! Same thing I've been doing even before you left," Rock laughed. His eyes sparkled in delight, and he put his hands on his hips, giving the detective a long look. "Man, we haven't talked at all since then, huh? I mean, I know you've been staying here, but I sleep in so late and stay out so much we keep missing each other."

"I've noticed."

"And Mom says you spend all your time either at the farm or with Gustafa, so it's not like I'd follow you _there_. I mean, they say Claire is absolutely crazy with the baby thing. And Gustafa—well." Rock grinned and made kissy noises. "Gustafa and Nami, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S—"

A pale hand clamped onto his mouth with a grip like steel, and Nami answered, calmly, "You haven't a clue what you're talking about, do you?"

"Ow, that hurt," the blonde complained. He rubbed his jaw gingerly once Nami released it and added, "You're so defensive. Geez, it's not like someone couldn't have seen you two going at it if they wanted to."

She turned to the horizon and closed her eyes, her cheeks heating in shame. Her hands tightened into fists; Goddess, how often would she be reminded of that moment of weakness, anyway? "I'm here about the kidnapping case."

"Oh, how's that going?" he asked innocently.

Her shoulders sagged. "It's not. At all."

"Well, that sucks." Rock squinted at the sunlight, then added, "But maybe it's a good thing, you know?"

Stunned, the detective gazed at him, at a complete and total loss for words.

"No, no, let me explain that," he laughed. "It makes sense, really. Like, Claire is all weird now, right? And the doctor is all by himself at the Clinic to get away from the weirdness." Nami nodded slowly at this. "So even if you found the kid, where would she go?"

"There's always foster care," she replied evenly.

"Well, _yeah_," Rock replied, rolling his eyes, "but who wants to wind up there?"

She smiled before saying, just as cool as you please, "I was a foster child. So?"

Rock was too busy trying to remove his foot from his mouth to say anything as she walked down the opposite path, no regrets lingering behind her.

* * *

"Bet you can't."

"But I can."

"You won't do it, though."

Katie and Eve shrieked in delight as Steiner picked up the steaming hot cocoa and, in one gulp, downed it completely. He smiled at them charmingly, Claire watching from his lap. "There. Now one of you get me water before all my taste buds burn out."

Immediately, Gwen pushed her cup towards him, and he took it with a slight nod. She turned back to her friends and rose an eyebrow, plotting. "Alright, Katie, now you do something," the cook demanded. "Bet you can't eat a whole bucket of ice cream."

"Talk about a major brain freeze," the brunette sighed, but she grinned anyway. "Hey, Carl? Do we have an extra bucket of vanilla ice cream in the back?"

"Uh, I think so!" the pastry chef called, and soon the sandy-haired man bounded out with the goods, smiling brightly. "I brought a big wooden spoon to use. Figured that it'd be more appropriate for this."

"What about the toppings?" Eve added. "You can't just have plain ice cream."

"I thought of that," Carl replied, and he brought forward a bottle of chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and sprinkles. "Bon appétit, my little employee."

"He doesn't think I can do it," the waitress announced to her friends in a stage whisper.

"Katie, you've got a tiny stomach in that body of yours," he answered. "I don't think; I _know_."

"Shame that the whole carton will go to waste, then," Steiner commented. Katie shot him a dirty look, and the whole table erupted in a fit of laughter.

"Fine," Katie retorted sourly. "Then I forfeit. We'll just share the whole giant thing instead, okay?"

"Best suggestion I've heard all day," Gwen beamed, but Claire beat her to the dessert, little fingers grazing its white surface. Skye chuckled, and Carl dished out the spoons (this time metal, not wooden) for everyone to dig into the concoction. Even Eve, who'd been sticking to her diet, gave in to the creamy and chocolatey goodness. "Hey, Steiner." Gwen pointed at his face and laughed. "Got something on your nose." He brought a napkin to the whipped cream, and Gwen giggled again, reminded that the whole visit a complete and total success.

To be honest, she hadn't been looking forward to it. Katie and Eve would, undoubtedly, have pestered her about the race's conclusion if she'd come alone, and Gwen didn't feel too comfortable sharing Steiner's speech with them. Sometimes she didn't feel comfortable repeating it to herself.

"_You remind me of her_."

She stole a glance at him, and he grinned, tending to Claire's messy face. He hadn't said it was a bad thing, but there was something strange in being a reminder of someone's ex-love—could that qualify as the same thing as, "I like you"? Or maybe, more accurately, "You scare me"? Why was it that she'd been expecting something a little more after that confession—a better explanation, a more personal answer?

Stuffed, Gwen leaned back in her chair and watched Steiner dab at his child's chin, wiping away all the sugary residue. He hadn't retreated completely from this world, had he? Steiner still smiled, still laughed, still lived. He hadn't forgotten how to love; his treatment of baby Claire made that clear.

So maybe, instead, she was just over-thinking this. That wouldn't be anything new, would it? Maybe he just wasn't interested in her. It could be that simple.

Ice cream gone, Gwen and Steiner waved good-bye to their friends and parted for the Inn, silent. She studied him, the baby clinging to him with a content little smile on his shoulder, and for a moment wondered what laying her head there would be like. How his arms would feel wrapped about her in this winter chill, or even just the touch of his hand against hers. Shaking, her hand dared to move towards his, then pulled back only to venture forward once more. Closer, closer, their fingers were almost meeting—

"What is it?" he asked her, and she blinked, startled.

"Oh. Um. Nothing." Her hand curled into a fist by her side, and she blushed, knowing all too well what happened when you spoke your feelings aloud.


	12. Chapter 12: Stirring

**Note: **It feels like every time I post a chapter of this fic, I start anticipating its turning point, and then I just inch and inch and inch…yeah. Who knew using so many characters would complicate a plot so much? You can't advance to one point if one character hasn't already done this or that, etc. etc. It's new for me, but fun. Anyway, my point is, I'm having too much fun writing this and I'm just going to shut up and let you read.

_**Chapter Twelve: **__Stirring_

Over a simple meal of scrambled eggs, Elli tried to catch her employee's eyes. Each time she did, he'd break the contact off immediately, and the nurse couldn't seem to find a good segue for conversation. "So. Um, do you like the meal?"

"It's nice."

"Mhm."

Their forks clinked against the plates, voices silent once more. What frustrated Elli the most, really, was how adamantly she refused to judge Trent for his actions. Lord knows people were whispering left and right enough already without her help: "_Did you hear? The doctor left his wife. And now he has the gall to move back in the Clinic with that nurse! Can you believe it? Can you?_" Who was she to disrupt his only sanctuary?

Still. Her hand quivered, and the eggs slipped off her fork onto the floor. "Oh! Sorry."

"It's an accident," Trent replied. "We'll clean it up later."

"I—I know." She swallowed noisily. "Uh, Doctor?"

"Hm?"

She gripped the fork all the harder, the metal leaving an imprint in her palm. "Is—is Claire okay?" His expression froze, and she continued, "If she's sick or something, I'd hate to think of her all alone in that house, and—"

"She'll be fine." The statement was not a fact, but an assurance they both needed to hear. "Someone is going to be visiting with her."

"Well. That's good, I suppose." She fidgeted before standing, mumbling, "I'm not so hungry today, Doctor Trent. Feel free to eat my share, if you'd like." Without waiting for an answer, she retreated to her room and sat down at her desk.

Surrounding her were teddy bears, many of which she'd had since she was very small. The doctor had bought one for her two years ago for her birthday, and she'd kept that one the closest, its button eyes as familiar to her as the back of her hand. He'd been so happy, then. Happier, even, when Claire entered his life.

"_I'm off to the Valley, Elli! Wish me luck!"_

Every Wednesday he'd say those words, and his cheeks would be pink with anticipation, his mouth drawn into the most sincere of smiles. She'd coach him on what to say, fuss about his clothes, and cheer him on each time. Even if, once the blue feather came his way, it felt as if the world had been pulled from under her feet.

"_I'm happy for you, Doctor! I am, really. That's wonderful. I'd always hoped to see you married."_

Even if the bride, well, hadn't been the woman she'd imagined.

Elli had never wished the couple any ill will. Yes, she'd been a little jealous at first, but jealousy faded if you stopped feeding it. So she tucked away all her firewood, letting the pain cool into something resembling acceptance.

Then he went and did this. Of all things to throw at her, it had to be _this_.

The nurse bit her lip, her fingers nervously reaching for a pen. It fit snugly in her grip, comfortingly so. She shut her eyes to the memories of standing outside her bedroom door, of being aware that he was watching her just as intently as she was him. Of unspoken questions and desires hidden within her breast, all of which she quenched with a simple, "Good night, Doctor," and a lock of the door.

"I will not be the other woman," Elli murmured to herself: a steady mantra. "I won't make this harder for him than it already is."

So she had no choice. She had to write. It struck her how easy the whole process was, how once the ink left her pen she could imitate Trent's illegible scrawl with the ease of years: the correct amount of ink spots, the precise amount of smudge.

The forgery was complete within minutes. The brunette swallowed, hard. It was time to finish what she'd started. Licking the envelope tight, Elli cast one glance at the address before stamping it and slipping off to Zack's home.

_I'm doing this for you, Doctor. Forgive me._

* * *

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

"It's only a roommate," Ruby repeated calmly. The innkeeper folded the blankets on Nami's bed with a little flourish then wiped her brow. "There aren't many rooms to go around this time of year—people love visiting a country winter wonderland. Besides, you should enjoy it."

The redhead snorted. "Enjoy it. Sure. I didn't pay to share a room, thank you."

"Consider it payment, then, for all those years that you failed to give us a penny." _And didn't even say good-bye. _Ruby moved on to dusting off the dressers and chests, and Nami let out a soundless groan.

"So, what, you're _spiting_ me, then?"

"No, I'm taking what business I can get. It's not like I'm out to get you, Nami. Believe it or not, I have motives outside of that."

Even if that were true, the detective found it easier to blame this on Ruby than on the unfortunate timing of this new resident. Rooming the girl with Rock would've been 'inappropriate,' Nami was told, and Doctor Hardy had called for her himself to do some work. Which, to Nami, begged the question why the girl couldn't just room with Dr. Hardy, and which in turn earned Nami a reproving look from the innkeeper.

"I don't want to work on the case with a tourist hovering around me."

"She's not a tourist," Ruby sighed. "She's in the medical field. And for what it's worth, I think you two will have lots to talk about."

"Oh, yeah. 'Cause I definitely talk about syringes and blood levels on a daily basis."

"I don't care about any of your 'lone wolf' problems, Nami," the innkeeper snapped. "Look, just because I once saw you as…as closer than an ordinary visitor, that doesn't mean I'm going to give you preferential treatment now. Just because I treated you—" _Like the daughter I never had. _Nami didn't have to hear the words to know them. She held up her hands in protest, and Ruby mumbled something that sounded like, "Never mind," before moving on to another room.

"Fine," Nami grumbled, sitting upon the bed. "But that doesn't mean I have to like the girl, does it?"

* * *

"Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths." Claire paced her home frantically, her chest heaving up and down in a frenzied manner. _"She'll visit you any minute tomorrow morning," _Doctor Hardy had assured her cheerily. And oh, what nightmares the farmer had dreamt up, what horrors could possibly plague her now! That Nami woman had been bad enough—but to meet someone who talked to people as if they were insane on a regular _basis_? What kind of masochist would take on a career like that?

Oh, God. Her heart jumped, the knock on the door just barely audible. "Hello? Ms. Claire? I'm the lady Dr. Hardy sent to see you." She bit her lip; would it be immature to hide under the table and fake being absent? Claire had faced detectives, spurned lovers, and cuckolded husbands, and yet a woman with a psychological agenda scared the hell out of her. Pathetic, wasn't it?

The knob had turned slowly in her sweaty palms, but the door opened just enough for Claire to blink and wonder if the right person was standing at her door. Instead of a clone of Nami Stone, a lady dressed in blue tied with a white apron greeted her, glasses perched on her petite nose. Sky blue hair was tied back strictly into braids, and big brown eyes sparkled at her, a small voice saying, "Nice to meet you! I'm Gina Aires. And we're going to get along just fine."

* * *

For a person intent on making her look insane, Claire thought Miss Aires had a very gentle way of going about things. First, she insisted she brew them both tea, and then she remarked on the quaintness and homey feel of the place instead of the long-forgotten messes in need of cleaning. The tea wasn't even half-bad, the farmer admitted with a sigh. In fact, it was amazing.

"I know I'm not exactly a welcome visitor," Gina apologized as she snuggled into the seat across from her, "but I do hope you enjoy having me come by. This isn't going to be…oh, what's that word…accusing? Is that the word?" The nurse shrugged. "I don't know what I'm trying to say. Except, I don't expect you to tell me anything you don't want to."

Well. After Nami Stone, this was a relief.

"I'm not even sure what you want me to talk about," Claire confessed. "I don't really…please, don't misunderstand me, but I fail to see why you're here at all. I'm fine." Her hands shook. "I—I'm wonderful."

"You're spilling your tea," Gina whispered, and the nurse knelt down to dab up the mess with her apron. "Probably should've had us drink in the kitchen," she laughed, shaking her head. "Sorry about that."

"No, this rug's pretty much unsalvageable," Claire assured her. "It's fine. Why, when Willow would have dinner, we'd—" _Oh my God_. Her throat constricted, the words suddenly lost. Willow. She'd said Willow, hadn't she?

"You'd what?" Gina asked kindly. "What happened?"

"W-we'd have to clean up, because she'd toss her jar of crushed peas," Claire finished. This voice wasn't her own anymore—breathy, airy, disconnected. "We haven't always had a kitchen, so before, we ate in here. That's where the green spots came from. Her food."

Gina smiled. "Willow sounds like a cute baby."

"She was—is," Claire corrected herself. Her hands wrung themselves in her lap over and over again before hanging her head in defeat. "I'm sorry, it's just…this still isn't easy to talk about. Not even now."

The woman nodded and sipped her tea. "Well, that's normal. In fact, it'd be strange if this were easy for you."

"R-really?" _Normal_. Someone had called her normal—even when this woman's job had come about because someone thought she was insane. She _wasn't_ crazy. Claire clung to the fact desperately; as of late, there hadn't been enough to cling to.

"Actually, you don't have to talk about Willow if you don't want to," Gina added with a soft smile. "We don't have to talk about anything except what you feel like telling me. I'm a very good listener, and even if we have nothing to talk about, I can make _excellent_ tea."

Claire traced the rim of her saucer and grimaced. "Um. I'm not…" She blushed. "I'm not very good at talking to people. I've never been, not really. So I can't think of much." A pause. "W-well, I planted some potato seeds the other day. I'm a farmer, did Dr. Hardy tell you that? Winter has started up, and I want to make the most of the season."

"Mm. Potatoes are _delicious_," Gina sighed in delight. "I have some nice recipes if you want to swap…but I suppose your foods must be a lot better with fresh produce. I've heard that your crops actually get shipped to a lot of nearby towns. I can't imagine having the energy to grow so many! I take it you like farming, then?"

The blonde hesitated. "I don't like it or dislike it." She sipped the tea as Gina watched patiently. "My father, he just…you know I inherited this farm, right?"

"I didn't," Gina answered. Part of Claire wanted to accuse Gina of lying, but another part of her figured the nurse was just trying to get her to open up. Which, she figured, she was expected to do at some point, anyway. A few words wouldn't hurt. In this case, maybe silence would hurt more.

"It was my father's land for many, many years," Claire continued. "He took care of it with Takakura…you remember Takakura?" At the confused look on Gina's face, Claire blushed and shook her head. "Oh, you wouldn't. You're not from here, that's right. A-anyway, my father made lots of money from his work on the farm. And, once he made enough, he worked his way towards earning 'real money'—towards leaving the country to reach city life. He did it, but it took a lot out of him. He made a lot of sacrifices, a lot of choices…" Claire closed her eyes and placed her teacup back on the table. "When my father died, I felt that I barely knew him. And then, it occurred to me that I barely knew _me_. So…when Takakura, too, passed away…I discovered the land had been left to me. I didn't think twice about moving here. I decided it was fate."

"Fate?" Gina commented. "You don't think maybe…you wanted to become closer to your father this way?"

"That's—!" Claire swallowed. Shaking her head, she mumbled, "I…prefer to call it fate."

"So, you believe in karma, then?"

A small frown passed across Claire's face before answering. "Maybe," she whispered. "I—I don't really know." And, unspoken: _I'm not sure if I can afford to._

* * *

"You're falling asleep on the job, Gwen."

The cook stiffened at Steiner's velvet voice, and she brought her head up from the counter with a weary sigh. "Nnrgh. Lemme just have five more minutes. No one's here, anyway, Steiner." And it was true. Of all the days for Gwen to sleep at work, this was a good one: the tables had emptied out an hour ago. Still, Steiner had been whistling to himself and wiping away counters and sweeping the floor. Normally Gwen would find it amusing, if she wasn't so damn tired.

"There is a time and place for beauty rest." Steiner smirked at her and picked up a pot and spoon. "This, fair maiden, is neither."

"I swear to God, Steiner, you slam that spoon against that pot, and I will rip you like a piñata," Gwen growled sleepily.

Immediately the ringing sounded out, and Steiner laughed at Gwen as she covered her ears. "What can I say? I love a challenge."

"You love _pain_, you idiot," Gwen snarled as she began to chase him around the kitchen. Armed with a spatula, the blonde hunted after him as he leapt from counter to counter, dodging her attempts with ease. "Stop moving, would you?" she snapped. "You're like a freakin' jellyfish."

Crouching on a ledge by the ceiling, Steiner flashed her a dazzling smile. "You have a lot of energy for someone who's tired," he quipped cheekily. "I guess anger wakes you up."

"Shut up! It does _not_." Frustrated, she tossed the spatula at his head, only to miss again. Gwen glowered at him. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Steiner laughed. "Immensely." Like an acrobat, he swung himself down to her side and placed his hands on his hips. "And, if you'll look at the clock in the corner, you will officially be able to sleep in five…four…three…two…" The clock chimed and he grinned smugly. "You're dismissed, head cook. Do as you please."

"For the record, I'm _your_ boss, not the other way around."

"Ah, keep telling yourself that, Gwen," Steiner replied with a wave of his hand. "We both know that you're about as intimidating as, oh, a rose petal."

"Where do you _get_ these analogies?" Gwen sputtered. "A rose petal? C'mon."

"And you're as bitter as a grape."

"That's it! I'm going to bed," she announced as she threw up her hands. "I'm too tired to deal with you tonight. You're just impossible, you know that?"

"Cranky as a—" The door slammed behind her, and Steiner burst into laughter. Oh, how flustered the girl was becoming of late; it took just a little bit of effort to put color in those cheeks. Although, he couldn't blame her for being tired. Baby Claire had been noisy last night for some bizarre reason that only a baby could fathom, and he and Gwen had both had their hands full calming the child down. Steiner was used to being nocturnal. Gwen, on the other hand…

Steiner paused in this line of thought. Had he really paid that much attention to the girl?

The answer to that was simple: yes. Yet that brought far, far too many problems with it, didn't it?

_If I'm caught._

Steiner stared at the dishes in the sink with tired, weary eyes. His haggard expression looked back at him as he muttered, "Hell with it, I've cast my dice. A gamble's better than a certain loss, isn't it?"

_But the house always wins, doesn't it? Always, always, always._

* * *

"Afternoon!" Kate chirped as she entered Claire's door. The woman looked up from her chair and smiled, the arrival both unexpected and anticipated. It was a strange mixing of emotions, the farmer thought to herself, but then again, everything had become strange as of late. "Saw you didn't get your mail, so I brought it up."

"Mail?" Claire repeated, eyebrows raised. Kate nodded and skipped over to hand her a crisp clean envelope, the address making no mistake of its owner. The farmer's eyes widened at the return address, and she tore the paper apart blindly. "Oh my God," she whispered. "It's…him."

"Who?" Kate pestered. "Who sent it?"

"I'm…I'm sorry, Kate, but I think you should go home today," Claire began haltingly. Her heart had skipped a beat; her breathing had become stilted, awkward. "What are you still here for?" she asked, turning to the girl. "Go. Please, Kate, just…"

"Yeah, I get it." Frowning, the little girl stalked off, and Claire turned back to this letter in her hands with the power of heaven or hell in its words.

_Be heaven_, her heart pleaded. _Free me. Please, dear God, grant me mercy._

The words "Dear Claire" were written at the top of the page, and from there, Claire let her questions be answered by ink and paper instead of nightmares and prayer.


	13. Chapter 13: Loose Ends

**Note: **Just got back from visiting a friend at her college, and I know that means I'm later, but Saturay is Saturday. Unless you're in Australia, in which case Saturday is Sunday. Anyway, I am in desperate need of more finished chapters, so...if I don't reply to your reviews this time, I have good excuse. Haha.

_**Chapter Thirteen**__: Loose Ends_

"_Dear Claire,_

_I do not write this letter to forgive you, nor do I write it to accuse you for what you've done. Frankly, I'm tired of such things. We've been alone a season now, and during this time, I've realized something desperately important to me—I want to hear the truth. I don't want sugarcoated lies, Claire, but I do want to hear what happened from your perspective. Despite how things stand, I've loved you, and you have loved me. I cannot deny that fact, for if I do, I'm fairly certain that life as I know it would cease to have meaning. I…I need you to tell me, in no uncertain terms, what happened. I'm tired of harboring grudges, of weighing guilt of the unknown on both our shoulders. Please, no matter what happens, let the break between us have an opportunity to bridge one last time._

_I leave the rest up to you._

_Trent."_

Claire bit her lip so hard it bled, the strange mineral taste seeping onto her tongue. Her hands tied themselves in knots in her lap, indecision twisting her thoughts this way and that. "W-well?" she asked finally. "What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Gina repeated, brow furrowed. "Hm. Well, I must say that if I were you, I'd consider myself a very, very lucky woman. Not many people in your position get thrown a lifesaver like this. At the very least, his letter tells you one thing."

"What?" Claire insisted. "What does it mean?"

"That somewhere," the nurse smiled, "deep in his heart, he still cares about you. Now, I wouldn't go so far as to call it love, but I definitely think you should reply."

It had been the answer Claire had both been hoping for and dreading. Gina had called it something like an "approach-avoidance" scenario: choosing a possibly good thing versus a definite bad thing. On the one hand, replying to the letter might spark some sort of connection between the two of them that had been lacking. On the other, if Trent didn't like what she had to say, it could result in further separation.

"You can't forget, though," Gina reminded her, "that saying nothing in reply will leave you exactly where you are. And whether you want to stay there is up to you, Claire."

In a selfless act of mercy, Gina had stepped out to let Claire make the decision for herself. So, for a few hours, the blonde stared down a single piece of paper. Occasionally, she'd lift a shaking pen to its page, then pull it back as if the ink might cause the paper to catch fire.

Writers made it seem so easy, with their one-hundred-fifty-thousand word novels: scribbling away all those words, and then doing it all again, over and over, without a care in the world. Had a book ever held the writer's fate in its hands? Had it ever had the power to save a relationship, or to sweep together its remains?

"What'cha doing?" Kate cocked her head at Claire from the doorway and frowned. "You haven't watered the plants today."

"I—I know. I'll do it later."

"No. You won't," she stated. It didn't seem to bother the girl, though, as she crept over to study the paper in front of Claire on the table. "Um. It's a blank piece of paper."

The farmer nodded. "I'm writing a letter."

"Oh." Kate looked at it again, then back at Claire. "You're not doing much of the writing part."

Claire bit her lip. "I know. I'm just trying to figure out what to say, I guess."

Kate propped her elbows on the table and frowned. Turning her head towards the woman, she quipped, "Are you like this when you talk, too?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think and think about what you're going to say before you say it?" Kate inquired. "Cause, well, I don't. And I figure letters aren't too different. Just…write stuff. The stuff you're thinking right now, anyway. Like, don't write something random about sports or whatever." She made a face. "Hugh always does that when we're talking. It's so boring."

Write what you're thinking? Claire almost laughed; oh, there were too many thoughts swirling in this mind of hers, too many to name on this tiny sheet. Then again. "I guess it's worth a try." Kate's cat began to rub against Claire's legs as she hesitantly brought the pen down, writing the first of the letters that would shape her future, for better or worse.

_No turning back now. No more running away._

* * *

Skye glanced at the trees about him and shifted baby Claire in his arms. "Nice to go for a walk, isn't it?" he cooed into her ear, and the girl babbled out some nonsense in reply. For some reason, Gwen had shooed him out of the inn that day, and the thief hadn't a clue as to why. "Go exploring or something," she'd ordered him. "It's a nice village—go see more of it!"

Well, he couldn't argue with her; the village was quite lovely this time of year. Back in Forget-Me-Not, the town had only been sprinkled with snowflakes, but in Flowerbud the ground was knee-deep with the stuff. The little darlings of the town—Meryl and Tim—had already made good use of it; snowangels and snowmen were rampant wherever one chose to look. Others, most notably Saibara, had begun shoveling out their doorways and muttering how winter always brought back pain with it.

Still. Today, people looked more cheerful—and Skye couldn't quite blame it on winter's pink flush. "What do you think, little one?" he questioned his charge. "Why's everyone so happy today?"

"Afternoon, Steiner!" The thief stiffened at the booming greeting and turned to see Bob, a smile spread wide on his face. "You taking the baby girl for a walk?"

"Yes," he replied simply. "I am."

Yet his efforts at escape were thwarted as Bob immediately joined him, matching stride with ease. "So, how you liking it here, Steiner?"

"Well enough."

"Mhm, it's a nice little place," Bob agreed with a nod. "Beautiful scenery, some of the nicest people you'll ever meet, and great, great food." He laughed. "I'm sure Gwen's given you enough of that last part."

Skye forced a laugh in reply; he'd never had a versatile sense of humor, had he? "I suppose you could say that."

"Yeah, Gwen's a good sort," the man continued with a nod. "Real sweet dependable girl. Aren't enough women like her around, right, Steiner?"

The thief copied Bob's nod suspiciously. "Everyone likes Gwen."

"Oh, to be sure, to be sure, but"—and here the racer clapped Skye on the back—"Gwen doesn't like everyone back, do you understand what I'm saying?" Bob's tone remained playful, but an urgency laid beneath it that Skye, master of lies, could catch all too well. "I hear you went with her to the Full Moon Festival."

"I hear that I wasn't her first choice," Skye returned evenly.

"And I hear the odds have changed since then." The rancher paused, tickled baby Claire under the chin, and added, "Steiner, I know we haven't gotten as close as we could be, but I hope you know that I care about Gwen. I'd be willing to bet that's the one thing we have in common, right? Gwen." His voice lowered. "I need to know, for myself, exactly how you see her. I reckon you can tell me that much, can't you?"

Skye pursed his lips in thought, hard blue eyes turning from this man to the child in his arms. Images flashed through his mind: blurred memories unraveling at the edges. Why should he tell this man what he hadn't even answered for himself? Why should he say anything? Admit anything?

_Feel_ anything?

"When it comes to Gwen," Skye spoke softly, "there is no one I trust more. Whether or not I find myself worthy of _her_ trust is an entirely different matter."

Bob allowed a weak grin. "You're a funny one, Steiner. It's never yes or no with you, is it?"

"Never." The word came out bitter, poisonous on his tongue. "No, it's never that simple."

"Well," Bob sighed as he turned away, "I hope things _do_ get simpler for you. Because…whether or not you think you deserve her trust…you have it, Steiner. So, if I were you, I'd make sure not to waste it."

Snow fell in a white curtain all around him, but even so, Skye found himself wishing he could be blind enough to think such chances still existed in this twisted, complex world of pitch black deceit.

* * *

Gina Aires officially pissed Nami off. She could chalk that up to her far-too-personal approach on everything, or on her too-orderly clothes and luggage, but Nami preferred to pinpoint the second that Gina had started bringing visitors upstairs as the moment they became unofficial enemies.

Sprawled out on her bed, Nami had been trying to read a novel but instead found the words swimming before her eyes; the case still nagged at her, little details begging to be attended to. Details that, unfortunately, she had no facts to illuminate. Skye's whereabouts. Skye's intentions. Skye's explanation for kidnapping a child instead of just punching in the face of Claire's fiancé.

"Oh! Nami, I didn't expect you to be here at this time of day."

The redhead raised an eyebrow as the nurse entered, blushing with surprise beneath her glasses. "I don't exactly have a fixed schedule," Nami retorted. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"It's not a disappointment at all! It's just…" Gina smiled and turned to the hallway to mutter some sort of apology to an unseen companion.

"No, no, I kind of expected it," a voice laughed in response. "It's fine. Just grab what you need and we'll be off. I don't need to come in."

That voice…! The book lowered in Nami's hands with a strangled groan. Gina _hadn't_. Gina _couldn't_ have, of all people—

"Gustafa, it's no trouble. Come on in, we have nothing to hide!"

Aw, _hell no_.

The big green eyesore walked through the doorway just as easy as you please, tipping his hat to the redhead with a formality that, frankly, irked her. "Nice to see you, Detective Nami Stone."

"Shut up. I'm reading." Nami held the text closer, trying valiantly to remember what the hell the plot was about, anyway. Good guys versus bad guys? Something like that? None of her treasured nonfiction lingered around Forget-Me-Not, unfortunately. This genre crap was the only thing she could find.

Gina, meanwhile, was rummaging through the drawers. "Oh, dear…I know I have a scarf somewhere, I promise, it's just..."

"It's fine. We don't need to rush," the musician assured her. Then, smiling wryly, he added to the girl eavesdropping from the bed, "I invited Gina to join me for a look-see around the area. A grand tour of sorts, I guess you could say."

"So that'll be done in, what, five minutes?" The detective snorted. "There's not much to see here."

"Forgive her. She has no imagination," Gustafa confided to his companion. "I've been looking for the cure for years."

Nami rolled her eyes. "Forgive him. He has no sense of humor."

That actually got a chuckle out of the man, and Gina let out a little, "Oh!" as she pulled a long blue banner from her bag. "Found the scarf, Gustafa! Sorry to trouble you."

"No worries." His eyes ran up and down Nami's figure and he commented, "If anyone should be apologizing, I think I ought to say something to this fine young lady."

Nami brought down her book ever so slightly, eyebrows raised. "Alright, I'm listening."

"I just wanted to say that you're right about one thing." An unsure grin spread across his face, and he spoke, levelly, "I won't give up. It's a losing battle, but it's my battle, isn't it? I've thought a lot about what you told me, and that's my verdict." A laugh. "I'm just not a quitter, huh?"

Gina turned a confused face to first Nami, then Gustafa, before the former snorted once more and laid down on her bed. "Whatever. Do what you want. I don't care anymore."

"I've noticed." Taking Gina by the arm, Gustafa started for the door before pausing just a moment more. "Oh, and Nami?"

"Yeah?"

A smile. "Your book is upside-down."

* * *

"You're awfully busy today."

Gwen blew the hair from her face, cursing her ponytail for, today of all days, failing her. "Yes, Uncle Doug, I'm busy. So if you could leave, that would be amazing."

Instead, the innkeeper picked up a bowl splattered with batter and raised an eyebrow. "Baking, are we?" She bit her lip and ignored his pointed look. "Your flour-covered face says yes, you're baking. So." He sat himself down and smiled. "Who's the guy?"

"Wh-what?" The pan almost slipped from her fingers as Gwen froze, cheeks a decided shade of red. "Uncle Doug, I'm a cook. I mean, doing these sorts of things is kind of what I do."

"Cooking, yes. Now _baking_…"

"Oh, come on. Can't a girl expand her horizons a bit without being labeled lovesick?" She frowned and wiped her brow; the heat from the oven was stifling, even at this time of year. "For your information, I'm just testing something."

"Is that so?"

"It _is_ so, Uncle Doug. And why you care about my love life is beyond me. Seriously, I can't bring you any grandchildren—what do you call your niece's children, anyway? Second niece twice removed?" She paused and cocked her head to the left. "Or is it first removed…?"

Doug gazed at the cake in her hands and sighed. "Gwen, seeing as what your hypothetical kids are to me doesn't matter, I'm just going to be blunt. This cake isn't for me, is it?"

She laughed. "Okay, no, I'll admit that it isn't."

"But it's for someone."

"Well." Gwen shrugged. "Cakes _do_ like being eaten." Taking a serving knife, she pried the cake out of its metal cage and plopped it onto a white rimmed plate. The crumbs were dumped onto her open hand and Gwen ate them in one mouthful, grinning. "And there are people who like eating them."

"Huh. So…this person who likes cakes…wouldn't happen to be male, would he?"

"Uncle Doug, drop it. Seriously." He fingered his moustache and Gwen stood, hands on hips, staring him down. To her surprise he said nothing, and she began to fidget under his gaze. "Well? What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," Doug replied simply. "It's just…I'm remembering when I caught your mom baking a cake like this, that's all." At this Gwen's bravado vanished, and the man continued, "She got so mad when I walked in. Madder than you, actually. 'Doug, I swear to the Goddess if you tell anyone I'm doing this, I'll beat you with a frying pan.' She'd never baked anyone a Thanksgiving cake outside the family. She spent hours trying to get it right—because she cared about her young man, just like you seem to."

Gwen wet her lips, finding her mouth suddenly dry. "Mom used to make the best cakes. I remember my dad would say how that's how she'd won his heart—she'd won his stomach first." The laugh came easier than she'd thought it would; the smile came through genuine. "I guess I always had some…silly girlish fantasy…of finding my husband that way." A chuckle. "Cooking, of all things."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and blushed, memories of a lovely blonde woman busying herself at the stove dancing through her mind. Of sweet smells of cinnamon and sugar mixed with caramel, of chocolate and vanilla and peanut butter permeating the air. "Sorry, I'm just—yeah, it's silly. Sorry, Uncle Doug."

"Not so silly," Doug disagreed. "After all, it worked for a certain woman we both loved, didn't it?" He clapped her on the back and smiled, Gwen hugging him in return. "Besides, any boy stupid enough to turn you down isn't worth your time. And any boy who hates your cooking has no taste buds."

"I love you, Uncle Doug," she whispered as she squeezed him tight. Her red eyes gazed up at him and she promised, "As soon as this one's done, I am making you a cake. I swear. Thanksgiving isn't just about friends and…more than friends…is it? There's family, too."

Doug nodded and ruffled her hair. "You don't have to, Gwen. But I'll look forward to it." At that moment, a little squeak sounded from the front door, and the two paused in their embrace to see a familiar young man and child enter the room. "Well," Doug announced, letting go, "I believe you have more pressing business right now, don't you?"

"I think I do," Gwen agreed softly. Then with a quick kiss on the cheek, she turned to the cake on the counter before saying, "Steiner? How do you feel about cake?"

* * *

"Do you…do you believe in psychoanalysis?"

Gina smiled at her patient's ashen face, and replied, "Well, I consider myself more on the humanist end, but I can see enough ties between past and present to agree with some of Freud's theories."

"Oh." Claire fumbled a bit with a pen and attempted a grin. "See, I've been thinking. About what you said." A beat. "Maybe I did come here because of my father. I suppose it's only natural to want to come back to my family's roots…after all, my father said we've had this farm for generations."

"That must bring on a lot of pressure," Gina commented.

"In some ways, yes. In others, not really." Claire paused as she studied Gina for a moment, starting again, "I don't think this farm was the problem at all. I think it was more of…this strange desire of my father's to rise above his humble beginnings. And I never really wondered until I grew up _why_ it mattered so much. He lived a more lucrative life, yes, but he rarely seemed happy. 'Keep working,' he'd tell me, 'keep studying, keep striving. Don't you want to succeed and be happy, like I have?' I never asked him, though…" She shook her head and sighed. "I never asked him why, if he was so successful, he always seemed so frustrated and disappointed."

Gina nodded, her braids bouncing. "It's been my experience with patients that what they _think_ makes them happy is different than what actually _does._"

"My mom said something like that," Claire agreed. "She'd tell me that if I could see my father in his youth, I'd barely recognize him. He loved this old farm," she murmured, "and yet he threw it all away for my mother. She was ill, did I tell you that?"

The nurse shook her head no. "That must have been difficult for your family."

"It's why my father was so obsessed with success. I didn't realize it until I got older, but I think he would never have moved if he could have afforded medicine by farming. But even though he could this way, she still got worse day by day…and she still died."

Both stared silently into their teacups, thoughts spinning yet lips shut tight. Claire cleared her throat and smiled, sipping the drink slowly before cupping it in her lap. "Miss Aires, my father made mistakes with me, I know that now. And he made mistakes with himself, too. I don't pretend to be perfect…but I want to fix my problems. I want baby Willow to come back to a better mother than before, and, at the very least, I want to _admit _that I can't do this alone. Changing is something only I can do, but being forgiven…? No. I can't do anything but apologize."

"Admitting you're wrong is a big step, though," Gina reminded her. "You can't fix something that you don't know is broken."

"But you can collect the pieces, at least." The farmer closed her eyes, breathing in the comfortable smells that reminded of a baby's laughter, of a husband's embrace. Of burned breakfasts, of kisses good-bye, of birthday cake and anniversary wine. These had haunted her, once. But now? "It's in the mail," Claire announced, standing up. "I've sent him what little I can, and now it's up to him." The teacup trembled in her hands and she smiled, weakly. "In your expert opinion, Miss Aires, is it…okay…to be scared?"

"You don't even need to ask that question," Gina assured her, and Claire nodded.

"That's good. Because I've never been so terrified."

* * *

"_I guess I owe you much more than a letter._

_If I were you, I'd probably wad this into a ball and toss it into the nearest trashcan. After all, from your point of view, that's exactly what I did to the love you gave me. I gave it a passing glance, saw something better, and threw it away for something shiny. But…but I didn't, not entirely. Yes, I hurt you, Trent, and I hurt me, but in a moment I'd erase it all if I could. Ha, that's so easy to write, isn't it? 'I'd erase it all if I could.' I can't, so I guess I shouldn't even be bothering with words like that. You probably stopped reading right there._

_You told me once that you'd trust me when I gave you reason to. I don't think what I'm about to do makes me deserving of that, but I think you deserve to know the truth. You've done nothing wrong; I have. It may be too late to be honest, but here goes._

_I did betray you. I did, a week after our first date, wind up in this…crazy game of cat-and-mouse with that thief, Skye. He taunted me, you know, whenever he came by my farm. Part of me liked it. There was a part of me that tensed when he came near, that made fireworks explode inside my heart. Now, I've learned that fireworks and love aren't the same thing. If Skye had loved me, he never would have taken my—our—baby. If I hadn't been such a foolish girl, we'd be all together in this house, living the innocent life we've both ached for._

_But there's one more side to the story that people keep forgetting, Trent. I left him for you. It scared me to the core to do it, but I knew I didn't love him. I loved you. He—I don't know how to prove it to you: that he was just a chemical reaction, nothing that I should've let stand in our way. If I'd stayed with Skye, Trent, I think—no, I know—I would have been a thousand times more miserable than I am, right now, alone in this house._

…_I know it doesn't matter now, but I still love you, Trent. More than you will ever know._

_I understand that this doesn't change anything. I accept that. I don't blame you for leaving me. Love is all about trust, isn't it? I ruined that. I take the blame. Forgive me or don't: I put that in your hands. I find they tend to be more capable than mine._

_Claire."_

"Well, Trent?" Elli called from the hallway. "Did you get the mail?"

His hand moved from the letter to his hair, pulling at tufts before returning to the paper on his desk. The words smiled at him and he couldn't diagnose this feeling going through his veins—this blatant fear tinted with shock and disbelief. Was it a happy feeling, a sad one?

…But a feeling—any feeling—was something he'd been lacking all the same, wasn't it?

"Trent?"

"I…I got a letter." Trent swallowed. "From someone I haven't seen in a while."

"Oh?" Elli asked innocently. "From who?"

Trent's hand hesitated over the phone. How long had it been since he'd heard her voice? Longer still since he'd heard her laugh? If he could just speak to her—but speaking before had gotten him nothing. Before, she'd lied.

But she wasn't lying now.

"A relative I don't want to be so distant anymore," Trent replied, and with an unsure hand, dialed a number he still hadn't quite forgotten.


	14. Chapter 14: Limbo

**Note: **You know what I love about this story? Surprising myself. This story just loves to evolve on its own, and even though I've got a beginning and an ending, the middle does whatever the heck it wants to get there. And though my swearing has admittedly been stilted (haha, I don't get enough practice in using it correctly, I guess) I hope you don't mind it in this chapter. It's pretty drama-tastic, this one, and Skye's little scene gave me _endless_ trouble. :D

_**Chapter Fourteen**__: Limbo_

"I know we haven't spoken in a while. But I'm doing the best I can—you know that." Her hand played with the phone anxiously; her nails felt they'd snap off in her tightened grasp. "You can't do that. You _need_ me. Damn it, what do you want me to do? I'm not a miracle-worker." Her teeth clenched; sweat dripped down her brow. "It's not my fault that Skye's still out there. I didn't exactly plan for a platoon of agents to flop. This isn't my concern, okay? It's _yours_. You're the one in charge of—"

The voice cut through like a knife, and she froze, the phone immobile in her hand. "I see. Of course I understand. Good-bye, then."

With a crash of plastic against the floor, the cellphone slipped from her shaking fingers, and Nami Stone listened to it crack into little metallic, fragmented pieces.

Useless.

* * *

Taking someone's breath away is a cliché, a silly little token of love. It's not associated with pain—but taking away someone's breath hurts them, doesn't it? Changing someone's reality by imposing yours upon it is risky, dangerous, and unsure. With the simple response to her "Hello," Claire found herself thrown into that cliché, a single, "_Claire_?" knocking her off her feet, stealing her breath away, and rendering her speechless.

"Wh-who is this?" she managed. Her hand tightened about the phone in a fist; no, this was a trick. Her husband never called, not even when he'd still lived in this house. Hell, he never spoke to her at all anymore—by phone or otherwise. "Hello?"

"_Claire, it's…it's me._"

Stunned silence persisted for minutes more as Claire twirled her fingers in the cord in silence: _It's him, it's him, oh God, it's him, what do I do or say or hang up or oh God, why is he calling me, why why why...?_

"_Your letter came. I read it."_

"Oh." She swallowed. "Um, that's good."

Trent's voice rose then fell in volumes, unable to decide if confidence or meekness would best convey his words. "_I, uh, appreciate you trying to fix things between us. I really do."_

"A-and I appreciate you reading the letter, and calling me," Claire added. Her arms wrapped about herself protectively, and she murmured, "You didn't have to, you know."

"_And you didn't have to tell me the truth, either._" He cleared his throat: a rush of static through the speaker. "_I know this has been hard on you. There's no way it couldn't have been, and truthfully, it's been hard on me, too. I'm sorry that—"_

"No, don't apologize, please. This…" Claire breathed in deeply, released it, and smiled. "I _needed_ this. I needed some time to myself. To reflect. And…and I think you did, too. Maybe. So, don't worry about it, please, Trent."

"…_But I do worry." _Claire blinked as he continued, "_Dr. Hardy tells me you're seeing someone about…you know, about some things. Is it—well, I suppose what I'm saying is, are you quite alright?"_

The farmer leaned forward, turning her head left then right, and finally admitted, "Not entirely. I'm almost there; it's just not all the way, not yet." She paused. "There's a woman I'm seeing for counseling: Gina Aires. I'm trying to sort through some things with her, like…like Willow, Skye, my past. And you."

"_And me." _He chuckled mirthlessly. _"Well, I don't blame you if you hate me for leaving, Claire."_

"No! No, no, no, you were _right_, Trent," his wife insisted. "I was wrong to hide things from you, to think that you were some crutch for me to rely on. I never learned how to shoulder my own problems, and that—that and the _hatred_ I still feel towards that man, towards myself—_that's_ what ripped us apart."

A heavy sigh sounded on his end. "_So where does that leave us now?"_

"Confused." Claire laughed. "Somewhere between together and apart. In limbo, I guess."

"_That sounds fairly accurate."_

She trained her eyes on the wall, lines running up and down the wood in jagged seams. "Makes me wish none of this had ever happened all over again. You, oblivious, and me, holding onto my suffering like a bomb ready to burst. Waiting for you to smell the smoke and stop it. Waiting for a miracle."

"_Claire_…"

"Most people say that holding in stuff like this—adultery, past mistakes, all of it—is the best way to go, isn't it?" Claire continued. "Just lie, let it go, forget. And then I look at Skye, think of the daughter we might never see again, and I realize…there are some people that won't let you forget, not ever." Her voice broke. "And they won't forgive you, either."

"_I'll forgive you_." He hadn't expected the words any more than she had, and he marveled at how easily, how sincerely, they fell from his tongue. Claire remained in a revered silence, murmuring only, "Trent…" in the most thankful of whispers. _"I…I don't know if I trust you," _the doctor continued, "_or if my word means anything to you anymore, or if you've been as miserable as I have this past season and a half, but…I can forgive you. Forget, no, but I can forgive you—I know I can. Because you're right." _She could almost see his smile through the speaker, and she feebly returned it. "_You chose me over him, didn't you? And for what it's worth—" _He paused, a strange tremor creeping in._ "Claire, I—I love you, too."_

"Baby, I—" Grateful sobs bubbled over, and Claire covered her eyes, tears slipping one by one onto her outstretched palm. "Oh, Trent, I…I don't know what to say."

"_Say we'll fix this. Say we'll meet again."_

She ran her fingers through her hair, threading the gold strands about her fingertips. "We _will_ fix this," Claire answered firmly, "and we _will_ meet again. But not now." She bit her tongue and glanced at Kate's cat sleeping on the floor, at the empty teacup abandoned hours before, at the vacant cradle by her bed. "I'm not ready yet, Trent."

"_What do you mean, not ready?"_

"I've still got some growing up to do," Claire explained, standing up. "And, when we do meet, I…" She took in a steady breath to calm herself. "I need to tell you something then. Something else you need to know. Just wait until I'm ready to face you, please."

His voice lowered some in reply. "_Don't keep me waiting too long. You worry me._"

"Everything worries us," she replied, and though it was meant lightly, the words rang true in both their ears. She pressed her hand against the speaker, and it was silly, she knew, but she almost felt connected to him this way, their voices merging and catching on the current of sound. "I'll see you. Soon."

"…_I love you, Claire."_

"And I love you."

They just both hoped, valiantly, that it would be enough.

* * *

"Something's bothering you."

Skye stabbed the cake with his fork and shrugged vaguely. "I don't see what that something could be. It's the Thanksgiving festival, Gwen—eat some cake. Let the sugar do its job and stop you from thinking."

She chuckled, leaning on the table and letting her hair spill behind her in a curtain of gold. "As appetizing as that sounds," Gwen replied, "I'd rather know what's on your mind. I can't just watch you there, silently caught in some sort of problem, and just say 'oh, not my problem,' as I stuff my face full."

"I'd rather you did."

"Since when has your opinion stopped me from having mine?" she teased.

"In the most ideal scenario, since now." The thief swallowed another mouthful—_God, too sweet, too sweet_—and tried to take another without offending the chef. Any other day, he might've loved a treat like this. But today? From her? "I just don't get it, Gwen."

A grin tied to a smirk appeared on her lips. "Ah, and herein lies the problem. What don't you get?"

The fork dropped from his hand, and Skye rubbed his temples almost meditatively. Each sentence had its own censor; each emotion had past angles held under lock and key. "…The simplest way of saying this, Gwen, is that I don't see why you chose me for this cake of yours."

"This is about me giving you a cake?" Gwen laughed despite herself. "Wow. Uh, it's Thanksgiving, Steiner. You give people cakes to show you're thankful for them. And," she blushed, "I'm thankful I met you."

He gripped the tabletop. "Don't be," he muttered to himself. "Be anything but that."

"Why not? It's true." To her disbelief, he turned further away from her, and Gwen scooted closer to bridge the gap he'd created between them. "Hey, don't act like I'm making this up, Steiner. You know you've done us a big favor working here—sure, you're getting room and board, but we have so many empty rooms that this is a cake-walk for my uncle to pay for labor. Then we can't forget cute little Claire melting all our hearts, and you melti—" A second too late she caught herself. "W-well, you get my point. We owe you, Steiner."

Skye grimaced. "That's ridiculous."

"No, not entirely." The blonde brought her hand to his forehead and pressed it there, brushing away sweat—was he sweating? Of course not, no—and ruffling through his silver locks. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you. The cake—maybe I came on too strong about whatever it is I've been feeling lately. It's just, I don't know, it felt like the right way to show you. I mean, if you don't feel the same way about me, I'm a big girl, Steiner. I can handle it."

_You're only eighteen. Who am I to make you grow up?_

His heart slammed hard against his chest, throbbing, pounding, wrenching—oh God, it _hurt_ to see her waiting there like that. She seemed so vulnerable, why, his secrets could break a girl like that into nothing. It wasn't _fair_ that she'd chosen to be his vessel; it wasn't fair that he'd accepted _her_, knowing fully well the consequences. _God? If there is a God? Just this once. Help me. _Her little pulse beat against his brow, and Skye felt his resolve slipping away at her touch. Or was it finally taking hold?

"What if," Skye began, taking her hand in his own, "being in love made you do something terrible?"

Gwen raised an eyebrow; of all the possible responses, she had not expected this. "Steiner, what do you think I'd—?"

"No, not you specifically," he insisted. "I mean anyone. You, me, Bob, Tina—anyone at all." The thief squeezed her hand tighter, eyes focusing on hers with an intensity that caused Gwen to shiver. "What if—what if I told you that I'd done something? Something I couldn't explain, that you couldn't understand, and that might frighten you away from me once and for all?"

Her smiled vanished; her hand snapped away. "What are you talking about?"

"You know almost nothing about me." The censor screamed in his ears, but he'd evaded it somehow; all the words poured out in a stream of emotional panic, overshadowing an innocent Gwen with confusion. "I could _hurt_ you, Gwen," he hissed into her ear. "I could show you pain that your little break-up with Bob couldn't compare to. You—you don't want me."

"C-c'mon, you'd never hurt me," she protested. "Stop joking around like that, would you? You'd never hurt anyone, Steiner; I _know_ you."

"No, you don't." He paced the room, circles and circles leading nowhere. "You don't know what happened with Claire's mother. You don't know what I did—if I was deserving of what _she_ did to me. If I'd do it again." Skye turned to the girl and softened. "You can't love someone you don't know, Gwen. Take it from my experience."

"But I _do_ know you," she persisted through gritted teeth. Advancing towards him and clamping his shoulders in her hands, Gwen snapped, "I know that out of all the people I've met through working at this inn, I have never met any father more dedicated to his child; any man more willing to overcome his faults; any…any _friend_ so kind, so welcoming, and so understanding of a complete and total stranger." She bit her lip, eyes wet with tears, and shook him in her bewildered rage. "Why can't you just tell me the truth?!" she shouted. "This hurts so, so much more than just being rejected, Steiner. It's cruel of you."

He had no choice; he forced the words out: "You have no idea how cruel I can be."

"Liar!" She shoved him again, and this time she wiped her eyes, something twisting out of her throat in the most alien of sounds. "You're a _good_ _person_! You—you're just acting stupid, you know that? So you've made mistakes. Who hasn't? You think I don't know what it's like to make a mistake?"

"Gwen—"

"I'm not the little porcelain doll you always make me out to be! I can handle things, Steiner. Believe it or not, I can make sacrifices for the people I love; I don't expect to always be the one who's coddled and blind. If you ask _me_," Gwen retorted heatedly, "I'd say either you're too nice to tell me I'm not your type, or too scared to tell me that I am. And scared of _what_? Making mistakes? Being human?"

"I'm the biggest mistake you'll ever make, Gwen," Skye warned her quietly. "Don't do this."

Her lip quivering, Gwen banished the tears from her eyes and let her boots take deliberate, even steps across the floor. She opened her lips to speak, red eyes flaring, and announced, "Steiner, I was brave enough to show you how I feel. At least give me the same courtesy."

Skye the Phantom Thief lied so often, the truth should have stopped mattering at all. After all, when repercussions are removed, what is a sin but a single lapse in judgment? Harmless. Innocent. Too venial to matter. Everything Skye had fed this girl was a complete and total lie, from his name, to his past, to his intentions: sugarcoated to blissful, ignorant perfection.

Yet one bitter white lie could save her from his fate. Lying, just this once, could untangle her from his string of crimes.

But Skye had grown tired of lies.

His hands alighted upon her head, twirling her ponytail about his finger as he brought his lips to her brow. Hesitantly, he brushed them against her skin before pulling back, her eyes wild with alarm. "I think I love you, Gwen," he murmured. "Don't make the mistake of loving me back."

In answer, she returned his innocent kiss with one of her own, stealing the protest from his lips gently. Probing each other's mouths, it felt as if something had finally connected them outside of the ordinary; dreams and reality meshed with their tongues, tasting a confusing mix of emotions tainted by urgency. All of her life, Gwen had wondered what her first kiss would be like—passionate, suave, sensual, innocent. Instead, she found a strange word imprinted in her mind: honest. Her red eyes fluttered up to meet his own and she smiled. "Let me make my own mistakes."

Neither could, for the life of them, explain why their eyes were wet with tears.

* * *

"May I ask you something?"

Nami raised an eyebrow to her roommate in reply. "What on earth could you possibly want to ask me?"

The nurse leaned forward in her seat, blushing. The redhead hadn't said more than five sentences to her a day, normally quite biting or insincere. Sometimes, on a good day, both. "Is it true that you and Gustafa are, well, an item?"

"Who the hell gave you that idea?"

She blushed brighter. "You did."

Furious, the detective stood flung her book—the same blasted paperback from before—at the wall. "Me? _I_ said I was interested in that lowlife? Is this your idea of a joke?"

"I never said that you told me that," Gina replied softly. "All I said was that you were the one who gave me that idea. I judge by actions, Detective Stone, not words."

"Well, aren't you Miss High-and-Mighty." Nami stalked towards the door, the anger flaring with each word out of that mousy nurse's throat. "Guess you should have been a judge instead of mental help."

"I know you don't mean that," Gina murmured.

Nami laughed. "Oh, right, you're God, too. Omniscient."

"And you don't mean that, either."

"Listen, let's just—drop it, okay?" The redhead tossed her head left then right, furious blue eyes piercing through innocent brown ones. "I don't do the whole girly pow-wow thing. I don't cry over my problems like some of your customers do, and I certainly can handle them just fine on my own. And if you think I've got the hots for some stupid guitarist now, of all times, well." Nami smirked. "Then aren't _you_ the insane one?"

Gina quivered but said nothing. Scoffing, the detective stomped over to her dresser and snatched up some photos: blurred images of those portraits of Skye and Willow, the footprints in the mud outside the farm, and beneath it all a warrant for Skye's arrest. One, to be bluntly honest, that she'd probably never use.

"Gustafa," Nami sighed, "is the least of my worries right now, Miss Aires. And if you know what's good for you, you'll leave me alone right now."

"Nami—"

"Dammit, I said leave me _alone_." Nami jerked herself away from the nurse's extended hand and rummaged through her pocket to grab a cellphone fixed up with scotch-tape. Dialing away, the detective glanced up and frowned. "I see I need to repeat myself."

"You need to be alone. I see." Gina nodded slowly and left towards the door with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry to bother you, Detective Stone. I understand how it is."

"No, you don't." Something hitched in Nami's voice; the phone lowered in her palm, and she squeezed her eyes shut in shame. "I got a call today." She swallowed, and without ceremony, announced, "Apparently, I've been fired."


	15. Chapter 15: Puzzle Pieces

**Note: **Well, I am late, but I was out with some lovely ladies yesterday and I didn't have a finished chapter when I left. So, since I can't give you what I don't have, I resolved to finish it today if it killed me. Which, luckily, it didn't. Hope you enjoy, though. :)

_**Chapter Fifteen: **__Puzzle Pieces_

"_You've made no head-way, Stone. Just gave the perp a motive, and that's it. You're not pulling your weight_."

Maybe so. Nami drew a circle in the sand with her finger and watched blankly as a little hermit crab crawled across it. Private investigators weren't cheap, and nor were they one hundred percent necessary. When a case got cold, they either became expendable or invaluable.

Apparently, she'd become the former.

She collapsed backwards onto the beach; the tide drew up against her body, soaking her cheap white shirt and capris with its salty touch. She'd always loved the beach here: beautiful, infinite, and ever-changing. Soothing.

A shadow blotted out the sun. "You're really predictable, aren't you?" Gustafa accused from above. "Every time something happens, you run here thinking nobody's going to catch on."

Her eyes fluttered a bit to see his smiling face upside-down above her, and she frowned at his widely brimmed hat before shutting her eyes again. "That's my line. How come every time I want to be alone, you follow me?"

"Because." Gustafa sat down beside her level body and crossed his arms. "I heard you might need a little venting. And it's been my experience that you like shouting at me."

"Gustafa…" Nami snorted and turned her back against him. "I don't get why people always think you have to _like_ being cruel to _do_ something cruel. I only shout because…frankly, because it's easier that way."

To Nami's surprise, he didn't press her further. Instead he nodded and began to hum a little melody she faintly recognized; perhaps she'd even helped him write it, once. "I guess you must be thinking of other jobs, huh?"

"Other jobs?" she repeated faintly. Her countenance became sour as the thought spun in her mind; "I…don't know what I'd do." A pause. "I've never known anything else." Nami's voice sounded so wispy, so fragile even to her own ears; where had the hard edge gone? _God, I sound so vulnerable…he must be laughing his ass off on the inside, saying it serves me right… _She picked up a seashell and held it to her ear to block out the thoughts: _You've become pathetic, Nami. Helpless._

"I got ya. Sort of still figuring things out, then. Makes sense." Once again he nodded. "Well, you'll see things through. I know you will. Someone would have to be stupid not to hire you…but stupid _and_ blind to fire you."

An incredulous laugh broke out from her lips at that; only he, of all people, would think such a thing. "No, this is supposed to happen. I've turned up nothing new in the case this whole season; I'm wasting company money on the inn and other expenses; I'm basically dead weight. I should've known…" She chuckled ruefully. "You should never need something more than it needs you. Including your career, apparently."

"Aw, it's not so bad." Gustafa took the shell from Nami's hands and pressed it to his own ear, commenting, "Sometimes it's just figuring out what's worth caring too much about. Your career? Yeah, it's a big deal. But you've gotta decide whether it should take over your whole life. I mean," Gustafa gestured vaguely about, "look what my music did to me. As far as I'm concerned, I'm living in the middle of the most beautiful valley in the world, doing exactly what I love to do. And you've traveled like crazy and locked up bad guys, which is admittedly pretty awesome."

"But you're _happy_," she insisted. Nami grabbed a fistful of sand and let it slip, grain by grain, from her fingers. "You're _happy_, and I've never been."

"So I'll ask you a simple question, then. What's your job done for you?"

"Paid for my living." Nami sat up, hugging her knees. "Given me full use of my mind. Gotten criminals off the streets."

Gustafa laughed at that. "Huh. So you're like a vigilante, then? You never struck me as the type."

"Perhaps because I'm not a vigilante?" was her dry response.

"So, why does your job matter to you, then? Honestly."

There had been a day, sometime ago, where Nami had wondered that question. Of course, it had been in Fall—how terribly recent it seemed now, that day sitting on her bed alone. "_I hope you're happy, Detective Stone_," Claire had said, eyes smoldering like coals. "_I hope you have all the damn happiness you please_." Strange, wasn't it, that her little drunken tantrum had struck a chord in the detective? How that one day, having turned the victim into the accused, Nami had for the first time doubted her profession.

"…It's all I have." Nami bowed her sandy head. "I have no family. I have no friends. This job is all I've got."

The musician hesitated, and murmured, finally, "But you've got me." Gustafa inched closer and Nami stiffened: _He's going to do something, I know it, he's going to wrap his arms around me and pretend that just because I'm weak I'm going to have no choice and give in and oh God why now—?_

"…I'm not going to kiss you, Nami. So please don't give me that disgusted look."

The guitarist pulled away, and even with his sunglasses, the hurt on his face was painfully apparent. Nami attempted to compose herself; just because he was an annoying little lovelorn fool didn't mean she wanted to hurt him, even if it was too late for that.

"Gustafa—"

"I know, being in love with someone is a crime. Caring about someone besides yourself is a waste of time. I get it. I'm sorry I didn't know friendships counted against me, too."

"But don't you see? That's why you're so nice to me," she insisted. "You're only nice to me because I'm, for some ridiculous reason, appealing to you. If I were ugly, or a man, then…" Nami covered her face in shame. "You shouldn't care about me so much. I'm not going to return the favor."

"Well, maybe so." Then Gustafa smirked, and to the redhead's shock, he put his arms around her shoulders in a simple, innocent embrace. "But don't be stupid, Nami. Don't you think I know what I'm getting out of this? Nothing at all. Which is absolutely fine with me."

His eyes met hers, and Nami fidgeted before replying, "I suppose, then, that I have enough time to waste with a friend, don't I?"

"That's the spirit," he encouraged her. Then, with a mischievous grin, he commented, "The question is…how shall we waste it?"

* * *

Claire had been waiting for Gina Aires for a good hour and a half. Admittedly, the psychiatrist wasn't late; Claire just couldn't sit still waiting for her session. Kate had quit trying to bring her back to a remotely sane state ages ago ("You're much easier to deal with when you're gloomy, lady") and now the farmer had nothing but anticipation to bounce off her joy. Trent had been forgiving. Trent had been kind. Trent had still loved her.

He _loved_ her. Even now.

The thought sent Claire twirling about the room in a silly little fantasy world; oh, she knew how low the chance of reestablishing bonds with Trent was, certainly, but this step gave her so much _hope_. Had she ever expected to even get this far?

"Good day!" Claire fairly pounced on the door at Gina's greeting, and the nurse chuckled despite herself. "Well, don't you look happy today. I guess writing that letter helped, then?"

"He still loves me!" Claire blurted out. Her cheeks were rosy like a schoolgirl's, and she continued brightly, "He called me on the phone, and I don't know, Miss Aires, but I think this could be _it_. The catalyst we needed."

"I'm very happy for you," she replied gently. "It sounds like things are cooling down, then?"

The blonde grinned. "Hopefully. I'm sorry, I'm just—I'm so excited, and I've forgotten to even invite you to sit down."

"Don't worry yourself about it," Gina answered as she sat herself down. "Would you like me to brew some tea, or are you just too anxious to waste a minute?"

Claire bit her lip and glanced from the kitchen to the nurse. "…If you don't mind, the tea can wait."

"I don't mind at all."

Claire took her cue and sat down instantly, her mouth running faster than it ever had before. It surprised her just how acutely she remembered her conversation; everything from his words, his coughs, and his sighs remained imprinted in her memory with impeccable detail. Gina didn't say a word, but kept nodding, her smile brightening with each syllable.

"It's certainly all that I could have hoped for you," the nurse congratulated her patient. "Why, it almost makes what I'm going to say all that much easier."

"What is it?" the blonde exclaimed; somehow the euphoria was tempered by the nurse's tone. "Nothing's wrong, is it?"

"Not wrong at all." Still, Gina hesitated. "You've made wonderful progress, and I haven't even been with you for that long of a time. To be honest, I think you were on the road to recovery even before I arrived. I knew you could overcome your troubles—I knew, just from looking at you. You're a strong person, Claire. Sometimes you don't realize it, but you are." Gina delicately took out a tiny slip of paper and handed it to the farmer. Claire glanced from it to the nurse and raised an eyebrow.

"A phone number?"

"I've been offered a job," Gina admitted, blushing. "It calls for my expertise—there's a young girl suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, and she's being held in a new Sanatorium that's being built quite a few towns away. I don't see how I can visit with you and take on this position both at once."

"O-oh." The truth crashed down hard; Claire turned away and began to finger the fringe of her sleeve. "Um, I guess I should be congratulating you."

Gina bit her lip. "I know you don't believe you're ready to be without me, Claire. But believe me, there's nothing more I can do for you. I strongly believe you can handle your marital problems on your own now."

"And Willow?" Claire challenged softly. "And Skye?"

"I also believe that your husband can help you in those areas much more than I can." Standing up, Gina began to pace the room, her blue braids bouncing with each step. "Besides, you can stand on your own two feet now. I wouldn't be accepting this job now if I didn't know that. And if you must know…" The blush came on brighter. "You're not the only one in love with a doctor." Before Claire could react, Gina added hurriedly, "Oh, no, not your doctor! This doctor is different…his name is Alex, and I went to the same medical school as he did. My grandmother works with him, and with their clinic opening a Sanatorium, they need more hands. So, I owe them both, I suppose."

Claire trained her eyes on the floor; Gina's shadow swayed back and forth on the wood, finally turning so that the farmer could see the frills of her skirt. "I'm happy for you." She cleared her throat. "I really am, it's just…I don't want you to go."

"Oh, Claire, you don't need me," the nurse insisted. "You're going to be just fine—"

"But I'm going to miss you." Her eyes watering ever so slightly, Claire wrapped her arms around Gina in a grateful hug, and she whispered, "You've been so good to me. I couldn't have dealt with this alone, I really couldn't have."

The psychiatrist hugged her back fondly, her glasses misting as well. "It was a pleasure. I hope with all my heart that your husband and your child come back to you. I honestly do."

"I know you do." They pulled away, and Claire smiled sheepishly before asking, "So…how much longer do you have?"

"A week or so. Which means," Gina added with a little laugh, "that we have time for some tea."

* * *

"You know, I never get over just how beautiful the sky is on this festival." Gwen sighed dreamily and laid her head on Skye's shoulder, smiling the faintest of smiles. "I always thought the little stars were fairies when I was little."

"I thought they were diamonds," Skye chuckled to himself. "I always wondered if someone could catch a shooting star whether it'd shine like one."

"You know, I bet it would," she laughed. Skye could feel himself melting with this girl in his arms; she smelled so sweet, like honeysuckle and dewdrops. Despite himself, he ran his fingers through her soft blonde locks, and she snuggled closer in this frigid winter air. "Steiner…do you love me?"

He paused long enough to let surprise cloud his features. "Of course I do."

"Can you say it?" she murmured. "Please?"

"I love you."

Gwen smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You don't know how good that sounds. It feels like…God, _forever_ since someone said that to me."

"I suppose I don't count?" Skye commented, and she laughed.

"No, I mean someone besides you. Uncle Doug is a sweetie, but he's so gruff…and Mom and Dad, well, they go without saying." She furrowed her brow then turned to gaze upon him. "Did I ever tell you about my parents?"

Skye shrugged. "I didn't think it polite to ask. But no, you did not."

"I didn't think so." Gwen straightened up in his hold, and she wet her lips; this story was one she'd doled out often, and yet she felt the need to prepare for it this time. "There was an accident. I was younger, and they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone was drunk and driving, and well, the story tells itself." She squeezed his arm and looked up at him with curious eyes. "But I think my parents would've liked you."

"Do you, now?" For some reason Skye found this amusing; most parents or relatives wanted him as far away from their daughters as possible. After all, a thief wasn't a good prospective husband, now was he? Not that Skye had ever been serious about marriage or any real commitment until now.

And then, strangely enough, he remembered that he _had_ been—that it was the whole reason he was in this village at all.

"Did I say something? Steiner?" Gwen shook him, alarmed. "You just went completely pale. What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

"N-no. Not at all." He shook Claire's face from his mind—her haunting stare, those ruby lips curled into a snarl, the way his heart used to beat faster at the sound of her very name—and he held Gwen all the closer, insisting, "It's nothing, really. I'm just remembering some things about my past, too. That's all."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, fair maiden."

"Are you sure? I'll listen," she persuaded. Her hand grazed his cheek, and Gwen added, "I hate it when you do this. It makes me feel so helpless, y'know?"

Skye smiled. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."

"Maybe you need to knock off your cryptic replies. I'm your girlfriend, you idiot; it's my job to hear you whine sometimes." She paused. "But not all the time. Because that would get old very fast."

The thief laughed, hard. "Have I told you how much I love you, Gwen?"

"Not often enough," she shot back, and even as they leaned in to kiss, she demanded, "But you're not off the hook, you know. I want to know what's on your mind."

"Well." He closed the distance between them, then answered, "If you must know, Gwen, it's you."

_And the last thing I want is to lose you. Or hurt you._

* * *

"I don't want to know your little surprise."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun!" Gustafa patted Nami on the back assuredly. "Come on, Nami. Why are my surprises always bad things?"

"Experience," she retorted. Then, glancing behind her anxiously, the redhead insisted, "I really need to go back and pack my things, Gustafa. It's been…_nice_ being with you…but I ought to leave my room before Ruby charges me for another night's stay."

"Believe me, you'll want to see my surprise first."

Skeptical, Nami raised an eyebrow, but she humored the guitarist and followed him down the hill. She followed his bobbing green hat past some trees, some villagers, until finally they stood in front of his multicolored yurt. "This is your place," Nami said slowly.

"You detectives are an astute bunch."

"Shut up. So why are we here?" she interrogated him.

Gustafa turned to her, grinning, and pulled her hand to the doorknob. "Go inside," he instructed her eagerly. "Go on, I don't have a bomb or anything in there. You can trust me."

"You'd better be right." Still, Nami creaked open the door with caution, and part of her wanted to flinch when it gave way inside. One step, then two, brought her in the incense-scented home, and she glanced about at all the familiar guitars, drums, and assorted décor that made Gustafa's home so unique. Then her eyes centered in on something new.

"What the hell is this?"

"That," Gustafa announced with a cheeky little smile, "is your luggage, Miss Stone. Welcome to your stay in the Gustafa Inn."

If looks could kill, Nami would gladly have committed first degree murder right then and there. "I repeat: what the hell is this?"

"I know you need a place to stay," he explained calmly (which was saying something, since Nami looked as if she might explode), and he continued, "I don't' want you wasting money on a place that's just going to overcharge you, so I figured, why don't I let you chill here?"

"Simple. We don't have that kind of…well…_relationship_," she worded delicately. "I can't do this."

"Oh, give me some credit, Nami. You think I'd ask you to stay if we were going to do something like that? I know you'd say no." Gustafa patted the bed and laughed. "Nah, I figure you can sleep here and I can go hang out under the stars. I've been meaning to try some camping, anyway, and I couldn't let a young woman—heartless or no—sleep outside in this weather."

Nami could feel her tongue fumbling. "I—well, but surely—it's ridiculous that—but I can't have you sleep _outside_."

"So you want me with you, then?" he replied mischievously.

"Wha—? Hell no!"

"Then outside for me it is." Gustafa winked at her, and then looking at her suitcase, commented, "I'd suggest getting your things together now. I don't like using much lamp-fluid at night; don't want the yurt to catch fire, y'know."

To her complete shock and dismay, Nami really didn't have any other options.


	16. Chapter 16: Grapevine

**Note: **So last chapter was quite filler-y except for two points, and Willow has been getting less coverage on the Claire front. I plead guilty. So I tried to fix that this chapter, but I need to establish some (filler-y) tension before we delve into climax goodness, and I was in the strangest mood while typing. It might be weird, then.

PS: The poem is mine. I literally looked for one in my documents, and voila. It lives.

PSS: **Rose that Blooms in Secret** asked me to put something in this months ago, and I'm doing it now. So now she knows I'm not ignoring her!

_**Chapter Sixteen**__: Grapevine_

She wouldn't admit it, not even to Gina, but Claire dreamed about Willow every night.

Sometimes the girl was still swaddled in her cute pink jammies; other times, Willow smiled at her in black funeral garb, or a wedding gown, and what made things all the worse was that Willow changed ages every night. The blonde could recognize her even as a blossoming young woman, holding a child in her own arms and staring at Claire with empty, unseeing eyes. "_Who are you_?" she'd whisper. "_Do I know you_?"

When Nami Stone had joined the search, Claire had asked the detective what her chances were. Instead she got facts: "About four percent of typically kidnapped children are never found." Then, just before the relief could sink in, Nami had added, "Of course, forty percent are found dead."

_What does that mean, then, for the other fifty-six percent?_

You can't worry about things you can't control. And Claire had no control…at least, she didn't think so. Rarely would she mull that question over, because the harder she scraped the surface, the more painfully acute Willow's loss became. Blindly trusting other people required so much less energy, so much less hurt.

But with Trent's stroke of kindness, and the release that had followed, her trust had begun to wane.

_Fifty-six percent. Are they all found alive, then? What does fifty-six percent even mean? _And on the heels of those numbers always came the same, innocent voice: "_Who are you? Do I know you?_"

Claire tossed and turned in her bed, till the sheets became as tangled as the emotions she harbored. She choked, same as every night, and buried her face into her pillow; God-willing she'd sleep soundly tonight, because all she could do was wait, wait, wait…and pray. If, maybe, there was someone she could even pray to—someone who wasn't paid to listen to her sobs.

Someone who, by mercy alone, could forgive her for losing what mattered most. Because, no matter how she hid it, Claire knew she'd never forgive herself.

* * *

Nami couldn't sleep.

Part of her wanted to blame the ridiculously pungent incense scattered about, another part of her blamed the bizarre knowledge that this was—damn it all—_Gustafa's_ bed she was lying in, but she knew the real issue at hand was something much simpler.

She threw the heavy covers from her body and stood, barefoot, on the cold floor. Her blue eyes squinted in the darkness, but even her attempts at sight couldn't stop her from stubbing her toe on random odds and ends in this messy place. Would it _kill_ the man to clean up every once in a while? Nami felt her way through the place, tracing over old guitars and drums before finding the lamp. Her cold fingers turned it on, and she sighed in a contented breath.

"Don't think I don't see that light over there. Turn that fire hazard off this instant, ma'am."

Nami rolled her eyes and place it on the table, unapologetically leaving it just the way she'd put it. If she stared, long enough, into the flame she could see a kaleidoscope of colors: yellows, oranges, reds, golds, and blues. Fire was a funny thing, wasn't it? All sorts of entities at once. All-consuming.

"You're going to burn this Good Samaritan's house down. He implores that you don't."

"Oh, shut up, Gustafa. Stop being such a drama queen." Tearing her gaze away from the lamp, Nami soaked in the sight of the room around her—but what she was looking for, she didn't rightly know. She'd seen it before, but now she felt so foreign, so alien. This wasn't her home.

Then again, what was?

"Are you…._snooping_ in my _room_?" his voice called in surprise.

"It's investigating. Very different," she retorted. Strangely enough, she didn't feel guilty at all—Gustafa felt like a case all on his own, and this was simply procuring evidence. Her fingers rifled through old records, letters she didn't feel like opening, and, finally, she saw them.

His lyrics. Hers.

Her eyes softened as she made out the thin prim scrawl of her hand: "**Reword your opening, it's off.**" "**The refrain is gold. Don't you dare touch it**." "**Corny. Cliché. Fake**." His replies to hers were always so flippant, so free, and flexible. Not a single whit of criticism threw him off. They'd written some damn good songs together, hadn't they?

She'd…_liked_ it…hadn't she?

"Nami? I promise, there are no dead bodies hidden in the closet. Not that I have a closet. But if I did, it'd be kosher."

She wiped a bit at her eyes and nodded, not that he could see, as she surveyed another set of songs. Emotions couldn't be set in words, but clearly this paper was proving her wrong—laying her feelings bare to the musician she wrote for.

Maybe that had scared her. Feelings.

Her fingers curled around the outline of the page, and she twisted the lamp's knob off in one fluid movement. Scared. Detective Nami Stone hadn't been allowed to be scared, or vulnerable, or free. But Detective Nami Stone didn't exist anymore. Not really.

"Uh, Nami? You okay?"

The sound of a door opening answered him, and a stoic figure dressed in a white gown stood before him in its shadow: a ghost holding songs in the night. "I figured you couldn't sleep either," she explained matter-of-factly. "I just wanted to know…" Here she paused, turning her head to evaluate him with cold calculating eyes. "These songs. Do you remember them?"

Gustafa smiled in puzzlement. "Oh, those? They're my favorite. Best lyrics I've ever had. And you want to know why?"

"Why?" she breathed desperately.

"They came straight from the writer's heart. Which is evidence enough," Gustafa continued, stretching, "to prove to me that she has one." At her ashen face, he pulled his guitar from his side and sleepily strummed a melody, a husky voice singing:

"_Let's dream of sunlit skies, just forget the gray and white._

_There's only clouds here, but we can glimpse_

_Beyond the withering oak's height_

_To sneak glances at windows_

_Shining in eyes of fire and ice._

_Passion melts out Reason, and Reason buries Passion's embers_

_But of fire and ice, darling, either would suffice."_

His eyes followed hers, but Nami said nothing, nodding slowly. "I was in a….peculiar mood when I wrote that," she defended herself. "It's not even that good. The rhythm is off."

"I like that about it." Gustafa picked at a few chords and sighed. "Stuff like…y'know, love…isn't supposed to be predictable. You can love someone, you can swear to the core of your soul that you do, but that doesn't mean you are. Sometimes you'd rather not love them. So you suppress it."

"Bury the embers," Nami agreed.

"But they can flare up again, can't they?" he mused. "That's the thing—anything can happen. That's why I love the song, because it realizes that there's no definite line. Fire and ice are equally likely to conquer. I'm sure you knew that when you wrote this, Nami. Hearts are complex things." A laugh. "And we've established you've got one."

For once, she didn't argue. Nami could feel her cheeks heating up in the winter chill—where the warmth came from, she couldn't rightly say—and she eased herself by this guitarist's side. "Play me another lullaby, would you?" the girl heard herself say. "Remind me what it was like back then, being in a mood that's…indefinite."

Gustafa's easy smile fell for just a moment of surprise, before he forced out, "Y-you're not going to get any sleep that way. Sunrise is coming on faster than you think, and the whole point of this was—"

"Please." Her arms wrapped about herself in the cold and she gave him a look reserved for hostile witnesses and perpetrators. "I don't care if we're doing this until dawn. I can't sleep, and neither can you. So why not, then?"

The musician gave her a passing glance before squeezing her hand and nodding. "Fine. On one condition." To her shock, a soft item was wrapped about her shoulders, and he demanded, "A lady shouldn't be in the cold without a jacket. Green isn't really your color, but it'll do."

Normally she'd roll her eyes. Yet for some reason, one Nami wasn't sure she herself knew, she laughed.

"Alright. It's a deal."

* * *

Back when she'd loved Bob, Gwen hadn't really wondered about marriage. Funny, wasn't it? It'd just been puppy love, which was nice and all, but he didn't have children. He wasn't lonely. He hadn't shared his deepest self with her.

Physically, Gwen wondered if he'd even read her at all.

When she crossed her legs, Steiner would immediately retreat in his criticisms or jokes, because that motion said "shut up, I'm ticked" louder than the actual words possibly could. When she played with her hair, he told her sweet things to alleviate her worry in order to bring a smile to her face. And, when she screamed, he knew she didn't mean a word of it.

Had Bob ever realized so much?

Steiner had left with her uncle for the day; showing him the lake was Doug's excuse, but Gwen figured he was giving her boyfriend a date talk, even at his age. Though Steiner wasn't so old, not really. Twenty-two wasn't terrible. Eve and Katie had come up with five as the magic number for dating eligibility in the years past; if he was more than five years older than you, he was unavailable and off-limits, regardless of the male's focused attentions.

So, basically, there'd been no catch.

"Agaba." Claire pointed enthusiastically to a spatula and squealed. "Daba!"

"What are you looking at?" Gwen cooed, tickling her. "Are you a silly little girl? Are you? Are you?" The girl's cheeks became redder and her mouth let loose peals of laughter. "Hey, your daddy's going to spoil you so bad, you know that, right? He's such a softy." Gwen's mouth twitched in a smile; Steiner would _kill_ her if he heard her. A softy might as well be a thief or a criminal or…some other derogatory word that Gwen couldn't think of. Whatever.

_Ring! Ring!_

The phone shook and trembled on its stand and Gwen pulled herself from the floor to answer it. "Hello, Doug's Inn; Gwen speaking," she parroted. "Mhm. Yeah, we've got some rooms open. Uh-huh. Actually, we're practically free, so—oh, you're calling about the Sanatorium opening! I heard about that." She watched Claire slap the spatula against the floor and giggled. "Oh, sorry, I didn't hear you. Ah, well, I think the building will be finished by then. No, really. You won't need a room if it's done, right? No worries, it's fine. Hope you enjoy your stay, even if it's not here, Miss Aires."

The phone clicked off, and Gwen knelt down beside Steiner's little girl, smiling. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Agaba daba."

* * *

"_I want to see you_."

"I know."

"_Can I come tomorrow_?"

Claire sighed and shook her head. "Tomorrow is bad. No. My…confidant…is leaving, and I'm not sure if I can face you yet. I thought I'd tell her before I told you, and now I'm not getting that luxury. That's all."

"_I'm listening right now, Claire_," Trent persuaded. "_You might as well do it now_."

That made sense, Claire supposed. The other day, she'd been fairly bursting with joy over their strides towards reunion, but suddenly…well, it wouldn't be easy, would it? Gina would be gone. No more crutch. Her mistakes would have consequences again. And Willow…

It was terrible, but Claire hadn't even wanted Willow in the first place.

Babies required compassion, maturity, a steady head. In regards to all three, Claire didn't fool herself; she had none of the above. There'd been a time where when she'd turn to gaze at Trent's loving eyes, she'd wonder if, tomorrow, he'd suspect something. Did she still have time to undo her mistake? Could she run off to another village under false pretenses, remove the child, and then return?

Trent would never forgive her if she had.

Claire had grown up told to do the right thing, even though all she saw she knew to be wrong. Slapping was wrong. Screaming was wrong. Gross expectations were wrong.

There was a statistic somewhere, too, about the children of abusive families, wasn't there? That it was an unbreakable cycle.

But blaming this baby for her own insecurities was worse, she knew, than doing what her parents had. How she knew this she couldn't say, but it only made the idea of doing such a thing slightly less appealing. Just enough, however, to doubt. She'd tossed and turned nights by Trent's side, and finally she'd just put it off tomorrow. Then tomorrow would come, and she'd put off the operation again. And again. And again.

Then the tomorrows ran out. And that beautiful, innocent, unknowing baby girl came into being.

"…What do you think Skye's done with her?"

A startled pause appeared on the other end. "_I—I don't rightly know. He's not a murderer, though…I can't see him doing anything above stealing_."

"Yeah, I don't imagine he'd—" A shudder. "—I don't think he'd do anything cruel to a baby girl, either. She's only months old, isn't she?"

"_Almost a year_." A sigh. "_We could miss her first birthday, Claire._"

"No," she mumbled into the receiver, tears springing, "we didn't miss that. We—we were there, that day she first saw the world. Skye can't steal that. Only the two of us remember." She sniffed; her nose was running. "He might be raising her, have you ever thought of that? Raising her to call him daddy and forget all about us." The fears broke from Pandora's box, and Claire continued, "It's not as terrible as death, and it's not leaving her broken, but…but she's _my_ baby, Trent…mine, and that's written in blood!"

Forgetting suppressed these words all too well. Blind faith kept her head blissfully ignorant. But talking to the one person in the world who knew how she felt—who knew what a _joke_ it was to have the one most important thing in the world stolen from under you—stopped you from forgetting.

It made you remember what a sin forgetting was.

"_Claire_…"

"What if they find her, and it's been years? What if she hates me? If she'd rather die than leave that thief's side? What if she's married, with kids of her own, and only just learning to call me mother?"

"_Then we'll be damn lucky. Because there are parents who don't even get that, Claire_."

"…I'm sorry."

"_Me, too. Just because I know it's wrong to think it, that doesn't mean I don't, either_."

She rubbed her temples, circular motions going round and round to hypnotize her into being calm once more. Guilt nagged at the corners of her heart, and her defenses started to fold in favor of reason; he deserved to know the truth. He needed to know, and he would know, eventually. "Trent, what if—" Then her lips froze in mid-sentence, a beep sounding on her phone. Another call. "Um, I have to take a call. Sorry, I'll get right back to you."

Another click, and the question dropped, never to be answered.

* * *

"I think the worst pain anyone could experience is the loss of a child." Gwen said the phrase simply, tucking little Claire inside her crib. The baby mobile spun in subdued blue and pink over her snoring head, and Gwen continued, "I can't imagine leaving this baby girl. Her mother is…I don't know what to call her."

"Nor do I." Skye fixed a smile on his face, but inside something had arrested him, making breathing just that much harder to achieve. "What happened between us is something I don't understand even now." _Especially now._

"I'll say. Claire is beautiful."

"Well, her mother was beautiful."

"So are you," she teased, but Skye didn't answer. Instead he joined her side, and stared at this angel of a child, snoring gently in the night. His hand brushed her brow, and a shudder of something coursed through him—something he couldn't name.

"We kinda look like a family, don't we?" Gwen grinned at him and placed her hand on his. "A mommy, a daddy, and a baby. Picture perfect."

Skye trembled once more, and his hand pulled back as if aflame. "I—I need to go."

"Why?"

"I have…some business to take care of."

"Bull."

"Then I need to be alone."

Once again, that hurt look crossed Gwen's young face, and the thief walked, shaking, out the door. Picture perfect. Perfection didn't exist. At least, this perfection didn't; it couldn't, and that dread was crashing down more and more on his shoulders.

He loved Gwen. He loved how she never took his crap; how she trusted him when no one else did; how she put on a brave show even when the world fought to turn her life upside-down. He loved her innocence toward the world, her lack of bitterness.

Love didn't mean anything.

What good was loving someone you'd only hurt, anyway? How incredibly selfish doing something like that could be—and damn it, but she'd let him do it. He was lying through his teeth, and she was just a silly bird, hopping to the hungry snake's whims.

_I wish this had never happened._

What was 'this,' anyway? Being spurned by Claire? Falling in love with Gwen? Kidnapping this baby?

…This baby.

Someday, any day, they'd find her. He knew this, in his heart of hearts. Facades didn't last forever. They'd take her from him, just as he'd taken her from them. Except this time, his own life wasn't only on the line—but Gwen's fragile heart.

"Yes, operator. I need a number."

Picture perfect. He'd paint her a perfect picture if he could—but his canvas was murky, his paints all used. Something new was needed, something fresh and white. His fingers tapped against the phone impatiently, the dial tone buzzing in his ears.

What the hell. He had no choice if he wanted to win, did he?

"_Hello_?"

Her voice startled him; it'd been seasons, hadn't it, since he'd heard her? Skye closed his eyes and sighed, in and out, before the words began to form in his mind: "**I want to give you the child back. I'll do it, just leave me alone; let me be free. Don't say anything to anyone**."

"_Is someone there? Hello?_"

Skye's eyes darted towards the bedroom, and Gwen put her finger to her lips, pointing to the sleeping girl. His baby. His Claire. His reason for living.

His one true vice.

"Wrong number."

The phone hung up, and Claire stared, blankly, at the phone in her hands.


	17. Chapter 17: Entwined

**Note:** Man, I was just getting more and _more_ into this chapter, mostly because we're getting into the meaty climax soon. Like, really soon. As in, chapter-eighteen-is-gonna-be-really-juicy soon. And the good news? I actually wrote this yesterday and Monday, not today, which is great for you guys because I'm dizzy and tired and weak and sick right now. So, now it won't suck half as much as if I'd procrastinated. Whoo!

(PS: On chapter one, I predicted this was going to exceed fifty thousand words. It just occurred to me that it has. Haha.)

_**Chapter Seventeen:**__ Entwined_

"Honesty."

The answer came out easily; "Honesty?" Claire repeated. Gina nodded. Her pale hands wove in and out through the clothes on her bed; frocks and aprons were folded into neat squares and placed inside the suitcase with care.

"I'm a firm believer in the power of honesty in relationships. Lies are sharper than truths; they can cut much deeper, even if well-intentioned. So, my advice to you is honesty."

Claire sighed. "I wish you wouldn't go."

"But I am going."

"I know, I know. I'm just…worried."

"About?" Gina questioned. The farmer shuffled her feet in reply. "Hm. Well, if it's Willow, there's nothing you can do but hope. If it's Skye, you can certainly hate him, but hating isn't going to bring Willow back. And if it's Trent…then be honest with him, Claire. These three tenets are my counsel." The nurse glanced from the empty half of the room back to Claire and sighed. "This is off-topic, I suppose, but do you know where Nami is residing now?"

"W-well…" The blonde hesitated; Detective Nami Stone had been fired, she'd heard, but Claire didn't exactly participate in village gossip nowadays. Occasionally she'd seen the hard-boiled detective bickering with Gustafa, but it'd been in passing, and Claire didn't see any reason to bring it up. So when Rock burst in through the doorway, she felt more than a little relieved that the question had passed to him.

"Hey, I couldn't help but hear you're looking for Nami?" the boy piped up, grinning. "Lucky for you, I know exactly where she is." He belatedly noticed Claire in the corner and staggered back, stunned. "U-uh, and hi, Mrs.—no, wait, Miss—Ms., er…?"

"Claire. We haven't spoken often, I believe," she mumbled. He agreed with a swift nod of his head.

"No. Not really."

"But if you could tell me Nami's whereabouts, I'd be quite grateful," Gina interrupted smoothly. Rock scratched his mop of golden hair and frowned.

"Oh, yeah. That. Weeeeeeell, she's been getting a little cozy with Gustafa, y'know?" He winked. "I hear she's staying at his place."

Claire's jaw dropped; Gina just smiled. "Thank you, Rock. It's been a pleasure staying here with your family. I'll miss you all." A quick hug, and Gina shouldered her bag, starting for the door. "Claire? Are you still seeing me off?"

"Y-yes." She shook off the anxiety (Detective Nami Stone _dating_?!) and picked up the second suitcase, seconding Rock's curt nod. "So….why are we seeing Nami, again?"

"I have something that might pique her interest," was the clipped reply. Claire didn't ask any more.

* * *

Two seasons ago, Nami would have shot herself in the leg before she'd walk, hand-in-hand, with Gustafa in broad daylight. It felt rougher than she'd expected; the guitar had left calluses on his palms, but they completely covered her own ("Dainty lady hands," he'd teased her) in a motion that wasn't possessive, as Nami had anticipated, but gentle.

"So would you like to go to the waterfall?"

"I was considering the dig site."

"Good call, good call. Ores are always inspiring." He flashed a smile her way, and would you believe it, but Nami knew she was blushing. It almost felt like a parallel universe; suddenly she was the one with a soaring heart and a thousand poems on her lips. Some question nagging at her mind was being answered, but Nami didn't exactly know what that question could be.

Funnily enough, that night had gone wonderfully. She'd forgotten what it had been like to sit in the moonlight, watching the beach, while discussing poetry and music. Nami had forgotten, too, how easy it was to laugh when you were prying emotions from your heart and tucking them into prose. If you took yourself seriously, they remained locked. If you could breathe, they became honest.

Haikus. Limericks. Sonnets. Verse. Suddenly they replaced tedious talks about murder, kidnapping, and rape. Had she ever thought it'd be safe to slip up in front of a coworker until now? She and Gustafa made up twice as many bad songs and poems as they did good ones, and they freely admitted it. Mostly because they laughed too much not to.

"I want to write more with you," she'd said that night. But, more accurately, her voice had said this: "_I want to be released. I want to forget that I'm not supposed to feel anything, just for a moment, and let go_."

Well, Gustafa had always been a clever interpreter.

"Hey, Nami, there's another one here." Gustafa dusted off the stone in his hand, and Nami took it admiringly; half of the ore was cracked, but it had the most unusual color and shine. "How's that for inspiring?"

"It's unique," she breathed, and Gustafa could interpret that, too, as "_it's beautiful_."

Back when they'd first met, he'd discovered her love of ores by accident. On being prodded about her past, Nami had offhandedly mentioned childhood scavenger hunts—adventures, she'd no doubt thought them—of cave hunting, and of stealing the tarnished jewels hidden within. "Just silly pebbles that shone, of course," she'd dismissed them with a laugh, but Gustafa from then on had showered her with them.

Until she'd left, that is. But now…

"Hey, Gustafa?" Nami fingered the ore for a moment more, turning her eyes to face his. "Thank you."

The musician gave a mock bow. "My pleasure."

"No, really. Thank you…for everything." Her nails clinked against the stone's surface and she smiled. "Detectives aren't supposed to get emotionally attached, so I—I guess I'd forgotten how nice it is to feel. Isn't it funny, that I had to lose everything to gain that tiny truth? I'm, well, I'm almost glad it happened."

"Hey, I wouldn't go _that_ far," he laughed, "but I'm happy to see you smiling again."

"And I'm happy you're happy." Shyly, her blue eyes flitted up to meet his once again, and Nami tiptoed closer—was that a blush on her cheeks?—to whisper, "I remember a lot now. I'd tried to forget, but…" The words slipped and tumbled on her tongue; speech was failing her now; spoken word had abandoned her. His gentle gaze waited as she tried to grasp her next sentence—she was supposed to say something else, but oh, what _was_ it? "But I…I…"

It all seemed so clear now: that day she'd stumbled upon the guitarist in a clearing. His music called her, she'd rationalized; his voice drew her, nothing else. Yet, Naminè Stone knew these excuses to be lies. Every phrase, every lyric, had chained her to the ground with awe, not because of their beauty, but because of a trait far rarer they possessed.

_Sincerity_.

Pure instinct drew her pale lips to his cheek, brushing against his skin long enough to leave a startled flush on both their expressions. It couldn't have lasted longer than five seconds, but it felt like five hours, and Nami's heart beat like an offbeat drum in her chest. "I—I _can't_ forget. Because I never gave you a chance, even though you gave me plenty. Deserving or no."

Gustafa remained silent as a dumbfounded hand felt where her lips had left him; a sweet grin swept across his countenance, and he held her in the gentlest of embraces. "There's no need to rush," he murmured into her ear. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a pretty patient guy. We can move along as slowly as you need to."

"As long as we're moving." Nami pulled away and cleared her throat, the blood still rushing to her cheeks. "Frankly, I'm a little tired of remaining where I am." _And even if it's foolish to run blindly ahead, at the very least, it's sincere._

* * *

Gwen slammed the rolling pin, hard, against the dough. The wooden tool crushed the tough but soft material into a flat surface, and though she'd normally be pleased with the end result, right now she just wanted control over _something_.

"You're looking tense, beautiful."

"Not in the mood, Steiner. Not. In. The. Mood." She blew her hair from her face; this was _his_ fault anyway, wasn't it? Stupid cryptic man. For all his charm, his beautiful looks, and his sweet demeanor, he could be a real idiot.

Like now. _Especially_ now.

"I don't know what I've done exactly."

"Don't give that 'I'm oh so innocent' look. If you don't know what you did, then you deserve _twice_ the attitude from me." The rolling pin rammed once again against the dough as she added, "And thanks to you and your stupidity, these poor rolls are going to turn out awful."

He eyed them and nodded in agreement. "You're being quite cruel to the carbs today. If it's weight, I must say you haven't visibly gained any."

"You think this is about my weight?"

"Well, _now_ I don't."

"You—!"

Steiner neatly dodged her rolling pin and chuckled weakly. "Uh, new guess. I did something stupid."

"Good going, Sherlock."

"Did I forget your birthday?"

Gwen rolled her eyes. "This is impossible. _You're_ impossible." Her hands twisted the dough before her into tiny shapes; her fingers squeezed until her knuckles turned white. "Tell me. Am I insane, Steiner? Am I crazy to think that you—?" A deep, deep breath.

"I what?" he asked.

"You don't _trust_ me!" Gwen blurted out, fuming. He blinked his icy blue eyes, and she continued, "I am sick and _tired_ of hearing the same stupid excuses. 'Oh, it's nothing, Gwen.' Or 'Just my past, Gwen.' For Goddess's sake, Steiner! I'm your girlfriend! _Girlfriend_. As in, if you can't trust me, you probably shouldn't be dating me."

"But of course I—"

"Don't say that unless you mean it," she warned. "I don't like getting jerked around, Steiner. Mean it or leave it." At that threat, Claire woke up from her highchair and began to let out a low wail. Gwen pointed to her and raised her eyebrows. "See? She's sick of your secrets, too."

He rushed to his baby's side, cooing into her ear and petting her soft blonde head. Then he glanced back, frowning. "This isn't the time nor place to be accusing me."

"I disagree. It's the perfect time and the perfect place. As far as I'm concerned, we could be on the bottom level of the mine at three in the morning and it'd still be the perfect time and place. So." Gwen crossed her arms. "What's eating at you?"

Steiner ducked his head; the answer seemed to be eluding him, but for what reasons, Gwen couldn't begin to fathom. "It's not you, exactly." He paused again. "It's me."

"Oh, come _on_. I ask you to trust me, and you hand me a cliché? Rip-off, Steiner. Rip. Off."

"Clichés sprout from a grain of truth, though." Gwen scoffed at that and turned away, but Steiner persisted, "What is it that you think I'm guilty of exactly?"

"It's not what _I_ think. It's what _you_ think that I think."

"Meaning?"

"Am I trustworthy to you, or am I just a lying cheat? Or worse, am I just a stupid fanciful girl?" Gwen shrugged her shoulders and slammed her slab of dough against the cutting board. "Theory one: you've got it in your head that I can't understand whatever it is that's bothering you, so you've resolved to get the notion out of my pretty little head."

Amusement flickered in his eyes; "And theory two?"

"You've decided I'm betraying you somehow, and therefore you don't see why you should trust me when I don't trust you." She blew her bangs from her face and frowned. "Theory two is shaky, though. I mean, I don't remember doing anything like that, so you're either insecure about me being friends with guys like Bob, or you've just got an overactive imagination."

"So that's—?"

"You're forgetting theory three: _you're_ doing something that would betray _my_ trust." The poor dough resembled something bizarre and asymmetrical now; her voice hardened as she continued, "Maybe you're cheating on me. I have no idea. You could be reconnecting with that bitchy ex of yours who walked out on you and your kid. For all I know, you're planning to run away again. It just…Steiner, I…" Her dusty hands wiped at moist eyes, and a white smear marked where they had laid. "Don't do this to me, please. I don't like games."

_No one does. Especially the Games' Master himself._

She flinched as he drew near, but Steiner brushed away the flour with a caress of his thumb. Her face twisted into disgust, yet her eyes betrayed her, begging with that final unspoken "_please_." Steiner's secrets had destroyed him, fine. But Gwen, the one person in this world he'd tried to protect besides his Claire, was crumbling, too. No matter how he hated to admit it.

The thief averted his eyes. "I…I didn't want to hurt you."

"Well, too late for that one." The blonde swatted his hand away, but for some reason she couldn't let herself release her fist from his arm. Her fingers wrapped there as if grasping at a lifeline; "Steiner, I don't know what the hell your little speech was about when I first told you I loved you. It kind of scared me, a little bit. But I didn't think it'd be so…I don't know…_terrifying_, even now." Her lip trembled. "Why am I scared, Steiner?"

"I'm sorry." It wasn't original or reassuring at all; yet how could he word it to be either of the two? Steiner had already said the rest, and Gwen hadn't been satisfied with any of it. "I'm…not sure…how to say this to you."

Gwen laughed darkly. "No kidding."

"I'm not even sure if I can, Gwen. There's just—" He gestured widely; how could he convey the vastness of his confusion, his unease? "This whole thing. It's not going to be black and white. I'm going to do things you're not going to understand. But it's not another woman. It's not me being jealous of you. It's none of that."

"Which…leaves one theory." The cook straightened out her apron and cleared her throat; holding her head high with flushed red cheeks, she stated, "I'm just a silly girl who can't be bothered with that inner shell of yours. Well, let me tell you something, Steiner. I've done my time in that 'no one understands what I'm going through, pity me' phase. But unlike you, I've realized that I'm not the only one who's gone through shit. Wake up. There are people who care about you, and they're waiting to see if you care enough about them to let them listen."

"Gwen—"

"Loving you isn't the same thing as understanding you, Steiner. The second part requires your assistance." The kitchen shook with the shutting of the door on its hinges; Steiner remained frozen as Claire cried and cried, the dough on the counter hardening into something useless and forgotten.

* * *

The envelope had her name on it; there was no doubt about its receiver. Nami fingered the sharp crisp edge, and announced, "It's not from the local force, that much I can gauge. They type everything, including the address."

"Maybe _opening_ _it_ will give you a better idea," Gustafa remarked dryly. He plucked at his guitar strings from his chair; the pretty lyricist had gone into detective mode as soon as they'd discovered the mystery note upon arriving home. "I'm getting a little tired of hearing you talk investigatively again."

"Investigatively isn't a word."

"But superciliousness is."

"Which is irrelevant, thank you." Hesitantly, Nami brought a knife to its opening, peeling it open with the care of a police officer at a crime scene. "Why anyone would send me a letter is beyond me," she mumbled as the paper gave way. "I don't know a single person who would bother." Gustafa opened his mouth. "Besides you." Gustafa shut his mouth again.

The letter slipped out smoothly; the handwriting was curly, pristine, and tiny enough that Nami wished she had a microscope to decode it. "Can you make out a name at the bottom?" the guitarist inquired.

"I'm working on it." She squinted harder, and suddenly the letters began to take shape: that was a G, and then that could be an N, and—Nami blinked. "It's…from Gina."

"Gina? Really?"

The curiosity that had fueled her during all those past cases flared up again as Nami scanned the rest of the letter, the message becoming clearer and clearer the more she read. "Oh my God." The redhead laughed despite herself. "You're not going to believe me, Gustafa."

"Try me."

"Gina," Nami began slowly, "found me a job."

* * *

If Skye had anything, right then, it was time. How much, he didn't know. He never knew. Yet he could hear the tickticktick of the invisible timer every second of every day, waiting for it to blow up like a bomb in his face. And when it blew up, he'd have nothing left. Not Claire, not Gwen, and not even his new name.

"S-stupid damn man."

He froze at the sound of her voice; it sounded cracked, now, broken. Traces of anger still tainted the edges of her vibrato, and Skye didn't pretend it wasn't vindicated. Just because he didn't understand the intricacies of love didn't mean he couldn't hear the truth in her words.

Skye crouched in the shadows; it felt good to be on a mission of any kind now, after so long. Gwen's whimpers had died down, and the sobs of a past lover echoed in his ears, as if to say, "_You caused all this pain. You're the catalyst here_."

Why didn't his pain count for anything? Why were only they allowed to cry?

How did you know you were in love, exactly? Back when he'd romanced that farmer in Forget-Me-Not, Skye could've bet his life that he'd met _the one_. Perhaps she'd been begrudging; Skye didn't mind, for that had been what drew him to her in the first place. So hardhearted, and so vulnerable at the same time: it had been the _paradox_ that had fascinated him, at the time. Claire had been a glass sculpture disguised as a diamond fortress, and to be able to see her deception deluded him into thinking, maybe, that she could see through his own.

But she hadn't, had she?

Skye had learned how to stand in a doorway while merging perfectly with the darkness long, long ago. In the sliver of light his vision allowed, he could make out Gwen's slight figure kneeling on her bed, a baggy T-shirt and pants her pajamas. "I—I'm not going to cry just because he's being stupid," she forced out through gritted teeth. "Gwen, stop crying, because this is all his—his _stupid_—"

Gwen had hidden parts of herself, too. Yet something about her facade hadn't been like the other woman's had been. This girl hadn't relied on transparent glass to reveal her heart; instead, each fragment of her jeweled tower was revealed piece by colored piece openly, and without fear. She'd trusted him with her heartaches, her past, her fears, her love. No, Gwen wasn't built of glass or diamonds at all; her heart was a prism, reflecting different lights depending on what beam you flashed upon her. And, if she trusted you enough, she revealed them all in a brilliant, dazzling rainbow of sincerity.

Yet he'd chosen to be an observer, instead of offering his own insecurities, too, to come to light.

"I need to give you something."

His voice startled her, and she immediately covered her face with a pillow, stuttering, "G-go away. I'm tired, and I want to sleep. So leave."

Instead, Skye fumbled about for the box in his pocket, all the while keeping his eyes upon her. She wasn't a pretty sight right now by any means, eyes red and face drained of all color. Her hair had been crumpled into a hasty bun, and the pajamas erased all figure she possessed from view. Still, Skye couldn't shake that feeling—_you love her, you love her, and you'll only have her for so long_. "You were right, today." A square shape materialized, and Skye held it forward in his hands, smiling uneasily. "I want to trust you, Gwen, I do. But apparently I'm not as good at this as you are, not yet."

"What's in the box?" she questioned instead. Gwen sniffled, but the pillow lowered in her hands and she crossed her arms. "If it's a blue feather, I swear, I'm throwing the pillow at your face, Steiner."

A wry grin tugged at his lips. "No such luck." The lid of the box pulled back to reveal two sparkling gems—shining in a way all too familiar to Gwen and her widened eyes.

"How did you—?"

"I found them on your dresser some time ago. I…well, I had planned to take them with me when I ran off, to remember you." Skye placed them delicately in her palm and lowered his head. "I don't mean to be moody, Gwen. I'm just not _like_ you. I don't open up easily. It'd be easier if I did, and maybe I will, in time."

"Returning my mom's earrings and giving me a 'maybe' aren't guarantees of forgiveness."

"Then I'll erase the maybe." Skye paused and concentrated on Gwen's eyes; somehow saying what he did next felt easier this way, as if she had hypnotized him into speaking it aloud. "I can't tell you my problems now. But I can tell you them later. I promise that I will."

"When?" she replied with a sigh.

"New Year's." The date came of its own accord; Skye couldn't say how or why he'd felt prompted to blurt it aloud. "I'll tell you everything then. Just give me a chance, Gwen. Being scared of hurting you, and of hurting us, isn't the same as not loving you. You have to know that."

The blonde studied the earrings thoughtfully and nodded, biting her lip. "I guess that's fair." Gwen clutched the box to her heart and turned away, laughing to herself. "It's fair. Yeah, I guess I'm just…haha. Sorry." She dabbed her eyes. "I think I'm just afraid that I love you too much. That one day I'm going to wake up, and this is all going to be over."

"You're not the only one who's afraid of that."

"Steiner?" Gwen scratched at her head and averted his eyes; the tremor had crept into her tone again. "Is it…childish…that no matter what you tell me, or what you've done, I'm probably still going to love you as much as I do right now?"

Skye shook his head. "You don't know that you'll still feel that way."

"You don't know how I'll feel, either. I'm just dreading it." Gwen laughed again. "I'm dreading learning what you told me about that Full Moon Festival: understanding that kind of pain, that loneliness." She stared at the ground. "But I think I'd resent being in the dark even more. I love you too much to let you struggle alone."

_And I love you too much to let you join the struggle_.

Except, not for the first time, he was opening the doors to let her inside, knowing fully well they'd snap shut behind them both.


	18. Chapter 18: Collapse

**Note: **I will personally rip ff dot net in two if it breaks down this update. I actually finished it early, darn it, and since I'm supersuper_ super_ excited for where the story is headed this chapter, I'm going to be one of those obsessive review-readers this time around. Not that fanfic writers aren't obsessive review-readers by nature. But this time, as a thank you for _your_ time, I WILL reply. And if I don't, you can digitally slap me. With a pancake.

_**Chapter Eighteen: **__Collapse_

Trains had always been Nami Stone's favorite method of travel. Cars dealt with traffic; planes were too-often detained by weather; boats could be overturned by the tides. Trains, however, stayed on one track and followed it to its finish. Meanwhile, you just enjoyed the ride.

"_We might not see each other for years, Gustafa."_

The steady hum of the machine gave background music to the thoughts swimming in her mind; Nami picked up Gina's letter again and sighed. A week or two ago, she'd have killed for this. Now, however…

"_I told you, Nami. I'm a pretty patient guy. Do what you need to do."_

This career hadn't even been her expertise. A phone call and a photo later, though, her new boss was happily handing her a decent salary. "_You don't need to know what you're doing_," the man had assured her. "_Just read what we tell you, point, and smile_."

All the same, Nami had begun reading an overview on weather predictions. A _weatherwoman_. She'd worked to become a private investigator only to stand in front of a camera and read aloud the day's forecast: all because her body looked decent and her voice sounded favorable. A shallow reason if she'd ever heard one.

Still, a job was a job, and a paycheck was a paycheck. Who was she to turn down easy money? Frankly, it shocked her that Gina cared enough to give her the heads-up. During their short stay together, the redhead had been nothing but rude to the nurse, yet Gina had taken it upon herself to be the girl's monetary savior. Go figure.

"Flowerbud Village, huh?" Nami flipped the card in her hands over and sighed. "Never heard of it." She'd only be there temporarily; it was Gina's new hick town of choice, and it was the closest town to the TV station. Maybe she wasn't doing the most high-end networking, but Nami figured it was better than nothing, and she had dealt with little villages before. Just look at Forget-Me-Not—the place didn't even show up on the map.

Just like Flowerbud Village. Ironic, that.

"_It'll be fun, Nami. A new experience. Write me all about it, okay?"_

"**Those departing please grab your luggage and exit the train now. If this is not your destination, please remain sitting…**"

Nami yanked her suitcase down from above and shuffled down the steps listlessly. The sky shone a clear winter blue, and if she squinted she could make out the sun hidden behind a single cloud. A new life. A new place.

All the same, she flashed her gun permit and brought her pistol along, unwilling to forget the past just yet.

* * *

"Broom, broom... Where's the broom?" Gwen scurried about the inn and groaned. "Steiner, where is that broom? We're behind schedule and my uncle is going to kill me!"

The last minute booking had thrown them all for a loop; Doug had gone out with Duke for the weekend on a much-talked-about camping trip, and Gwen had expected another boring restaurant-style two days. Instead, she got a call from a Ms. Stone for a reservation, and could she please check in at her room today?

Yet if the blonde hadn't chosen to spend last night as she had, Gwen knew that this wouldn't be a problem at all.

The memory made her cringe a bit upon recalling; perhaps it had been guilt—no, it _had_ been guilt—that'd prompted her actions. "_We haven't been alone like this in a while," _she had commented, sitting by his side. Her amber eyes flitted from the couch to his stone expression. "_It's kind of nice."_

Steiner hadn't said a word, just nodded and wrapped his arm tighter about her shoulders. His fingers felt cool on her skin, yet for some reason Gwen found herself yearning for warmth instead, and a little sigh left her lips.

"_What is it?_"

"_Nothing. I'm perfectly happy, Steiner." _A bright smile stretched across her face and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "_Just over-thinking, you know. It happens."_

Another nod. More silence.

Her heart sunk a little lower within her and Gwen bit her lip. _This_ was her punishment, she supposed. This treatment was the price of her demand; well, who was she to begrudge him that little protest? Steiner had feelings, too, and he could display them how he chose, immature or no. Any melodramatics he chose to perform, he had a right to. Though frankly, the part that had truly hurt Gwen…was that it didn't seem like an act at all.

The blank glances. The quiet nods. All seemed natural, done without his realizing it. Only baby Claire invoked the old side of him; when Gwen saw him alone, it was as if some old specter had appeared and taken hold of the man she loved.

"_Steiner? Are you alright? Hey." _Gwen placed her hand on his cheek and smoothed out his frown lines; "_Why don't I make us some dessert? Claire's sleeping, Doug's gone, and I've got enough sugar to last us five lifetimes."_

"_No, thank you."_

No flippant retort. Just a polite, dull reply.

She'd done something. Gwen couldn't word it exactly, but that forlorn expression, that listless mood—_her_ actions had prompted that. If she hadn't been so pushy, or impatient, perhaps the smooth-talking Steiner she'd fallen for would still be sitting beside her. Oh, God, to think that _she_ could be the cause of his unhappiness—! The thought sent tendrils of remorse shuddering down her spine.

"_Steiner?" _His lips remained frozen, so she kissed life into them, murmuring, "_You do know…that we're alone, right?" _Her hand slipped towards her ponytail, loosening her long blonde locks to frame her pixie face as another kiss linked them both. "_Just you and me." _

Gwen's tiny heart pumped inside her body, the blood screaming in a way she refused to let her lips mimic as she brought her hand to his thigh. It didn't feel real, not really—just foreign, letting her body give signs to his. She'd had no experience, certainly, and she'd never thought to before marriage. But in the movies, and in the books, this was _it_. The proof two people lacked so desperately of their love; that one act that gave everything, including an apology, in order to receive part of yourself in return.

For a few, agonizing moments, the man stared at her with eyes full of disbelief and longing. "_Gwen." _Steiner smiled a bit to himself and placed his hand on her own. "_Oh, Gwen. You really have no idea what you're doing, do you?" _Then, delicately, he pressed her fingers back into her palm. Gwen felt her breathing still as his hands enfolded over hers like petals about a rosebud: soft, gentle, patient. _"It's not that I don't want to, believe me. It's that __**you**__ don't. I can tell."_

"_Steiner, I—"_

"_You're shaking," _he whispered into her ear. His finger toyed with a stray blonde curl, and his breath tickled her cheek. "_There's no need, Gwen. But…I'm touched that you'd go that far for me. Really."_

Her reply strangled in her throat. It had been a protest—Gwen almost wanted to call it one—yet she had curbed it so easily. She should have been furious, she supposed: insulted, affronted even. Perhaps she was in denial. Or perhaps, as he held her hand with almost sacred intimacy, Steiner had read her better than she'd read herself. _"…You could tell all that, just from looking at me?_"

"_Yes."_

"_But you said no, even though you knew I'd have done it anyway?"_

"_Yes."_

The muscles relaxed, one by one, and Gwen bit her lip down harder. She'd already cried enough in front of him; she didn't need this now, even if these tears were far from sad. _"Then, thank you."_ She cuddled closer to him, and with her head on his shoulder, they rested awhile in an almost perfect silence. No, this Steiner wasn't the one she'd first met. He was someone far beyond Gwen's expectations: someone who, no matter what he'd done in the past, she knew could be trusted with her heart.

"Found the broom, Gwen." She blinked, and once again it was morning and hectic and busier than it ever should've been. Steiner held the broom forward with an apologetic grin, and added, "Sorry it took me so long."

"It's fine," she assured him. "We're just pressed for time, is all."

It wouldn't be long before she knew just how little time that was.

* * *

He hadn't seen her in ages. He remembered her vividly enough; yet the doctor couldn't have described himself back then, not from the outside. The last time, he'd seen her, though, her cheeks had been flushed with anger; her hair tousled with fury; her eyes wet with tears. Now, staring into her crystal blue eyes once again, Trent tried to block out that last snapshot with this one: a sun-kissed fairy, eyes aglow with surprise and blood red lips parted in an O as her airy voice breathed out his name.

"Trent?"

"You never told me when to come," he stated simply. "I had to set my own schedule." The doctor waited for Claire's common sense to return and only entered the doorway when she stammered out an invitation. The room smelled different than he remembered, almost like tea. It reminded him of Elli's, oddly enough.

"Um, I didn't clean up—" The blonde stumbled from the bedroom to the kitchen then back again, blushing. "Sorry, if I'd known I would've…I mean…God, I just can't believe you're _here_."

Trent couldn't help it; he smiled. "I'm not the best of company, but I'll try and live up to your expectations."

"And you're making jokes. Wow. This is…wow." Claire plopped herself on the bed and covered her face (had it ever burned so red?) as she stuttered, "I—I need a moment for this to sink in. Sorry."

"Take as many moments as you need. I have the day off."

Puzzled, Claire cocked her head at him. "But it's not Wednesday."

"I can take a day off to see my wife, don't you think?"

That did it; Claire cracked, laughing as grateful tears streamed down her cheeks. _Wife_. Had she really missed that word so much? Had she missed hearing him say it that desperately? Trent found himself immediately running to her side, rubbing his hand up and down her back in soothing motions as she crumpled forward. "It's okay," he whispered, even though it was by no means a guarantee. "It's okay, alright? I'm here."

"You took the day off for me," Claire repeated to herself, wiping her nose. "Y-you came all the way here, and you—"

"I didn't do anything that shouldn't have been done a long time ago." Trent fished through his pocket for a hanky, and Claire took it, blowing noisily. The doctor ran his fingers through his hair and confessed, "I didn't know. I had no idea what you were already dealing with, Claire."

"That's not even your fault," Claire blubbered on.

"It's not anyone's fault." Trent paused. "I just got afraid of dealing with more than I could handle." _Postponing_, Dr. Hardy had called it. Funny, wasn't it, that a man in boxers and flip-flops could label defenses so acutely? "I didn't realize, not until I got your letter, that you were already struggling with more than any one person should. But what really got me was—"

"_I understand that this doesn't change anything. I accept that. I don't blame you for leaving me. Love is all about trust, isn't it? I ruined that. I take the blame."_

His words died and Claire rubbed her eyes, eyebrows raised in confusion. "What?" she insisted. "What happened, exactly?"

"I realized I deserved some of the blame, too." Trent's hands tangled through his thick black hair; he'd practiced this conversation with Elli, oh, a thousand times, but the nurse had always rebuked him for using her as a guinea pig. "_Just let it come from the heart,"_ the brunette had ordered. _"Stop rehearsing!" _He let his eyes catch hers and he smiled, awkwardly. "I left you home alone constantly with Willow. I'd come home and expect things to be running smoothly, that I could just pick up from where we'd left off the night before and have a seamless marriage. No strain, no conflict." A pause. "What if that'd just gone on, Claire?"

The farmer folded her hands in her lap; she shrugged. "I knew what I was getting into, didn't I?" Claire murmured. "I married you knowing your work came first."

"But work shouldn't come first. You're not some Stepford wife, and I can't expect you to shoulder every little thing that I don't have time for. Work doesn't make up for that. Work doesn't—" He sucked in a deep breath. "Claire, I've been working for a season and a half now, and—and God help me, but I couldn't seem to think of anything but you and Willow that whole time." Trent chuckled despite himself. "Sometimes I wonder if…if Skye _hadn't_ kidnapped Willow…if I'd ever have truly gotten to know her."

"Of course you would have," Claire assured him.

"No. I wouldn't have." His statement left Claire cold, and this time she was the one to wrap her arm around him as he hung his head in shame. "I'm turning into my father," the doctor announced. "I saw him so rarely, but he seemed so strong, so serious and brave, that I couldn't resent him. A doctor, always working, always saving others. We barely spoke, but I wanted to be strong, like he was. It didn't occur to me…that being strong, and being caring, can be the same thing."

"Oh, Trent." Claire's hand alighted on his cheek and let her fingers graze it fondly. "You're being too hard on yourself."

"And you're not being too hard on yourself, Claire?"

"You never lied to me," the farmer retorted. "You never betrayed me."

"But I lied to myself," Trent answered. "And I betrayed not only you, but Willow."

A perfect marriage was not built of two perfect people. A man did not leave his house knowing his wife and child to be safe; an outsider couldn't ruin a marriage that didn't already have its cracks. Blaming Skye had been simple. Blaming Claire had been heartrending.

But blaming _himself_?

Doctor Trent had seen his wife's medical records. He knew her blood type, her DNA, her scars, dimples, and the constellation of three freckles on her back. Seeing that, and connecting all of it to a photo of a beautiful smiling girl, didn't compute. Her medical past became incomprehensible. All a fluke, of course; no sadness hung in those eyes. Glassy eyes couldn't be wet with tears, could they?

"_Are you aware that your wife was mentally and physically abused as a child?"_

The abuse. The affair. All of it. "I blinded myself. I did it on purpose, I suppose. I let you handle the guilt of everything; I preferred to let things stay the way they were instead of addressing the flaws."

"I can't say I blame you for that."

"Well, you should." Trent drummed his hand on the bedspread, a dull and cushioned _thump_ making sound while his lips made none. "Claire, about what you wanted to tell me." He paused. "I think I already know. I think I always knew."

"If you knew," Claire whispered, turning away, "you wouldn't be here, would you?"

What had tied Trent and Claire together, from the beginning, had been the belief that each fully knew the other. Trent exuded reliability, brilliance, precision; Claire personified loyalty, modesty, and dedication. Yet all these personas had been shattered in a single year. How could you call someone "husband" you barely knew? How could you call a total stranger "wife"?

"You're wrong. If I'd known everything from the beginning," Trent answered, closing the gap between them, "I'd have never left in the first place."

Marriage, broken down to its basest form, means "a gamble." All the roses in the world wilt eventually; all the promises ever made have been bent, if only slightly. Expecting anything always leads to the unexpected. Watching a bride walk down the aisle does not signal the end of a story; instead, it opens the doors to a whole new journey, with whole new secrets waiting to be unfolded.

The question wasn't whether or not you'd been deceived. The question was, in fact, how willing you were to embrace the person behind the veil, and how willingly you, too, cast your own aside.

* * *

Innocence could be a child chasing a butterfly; innocence could be an unbroken heart, a song unsung. Nami had watched the flighty girl in the Inn for a few moments, and innocent had suited her quite nicely, she supposed. Young, able, spunky, bright: innocent, yes, innocent. "I'll be with you in a minute, Ms. Stone!" she shouted over her shoulder, swiping a ring of keys off their hook. Then, ponytail bouncing, she held it forward with a little grin. "The keys to the upstairs room, first on your left. Gwen at your service; call if you need anything, okay?"

"You're rather young to be running an Inn," Nami heard herself critique.

"Oh, it's not mine!" Gwen laughed. "My uncle runs it. You just caught us at a slow time of the year; he and a friend are out camping. But don't worry—I'll make sure your stay goes just fine. I've learned a thing or two from my uncle, believe me."

The blonde seemed so sure of herself that Nami felt almost guilty for doubting her. "I'm sure everything will go just fine," the former detective nodded. "I'll just take my bags upstairs, then."

"Are you kidding? We have people who do that for you," Gwen reminded her with a little smile. "You're at an _Inn_—at least let us pamper you a bit, okay?"

Her generosity brought a faint flicker of nostalgia to Nami's eyes; the last time a hostess had been so kind, she'd thrown it all away for a badge and a gun. And in the end, that's all she'd kept with her, wasn't it?

She held forward her meager belongings and shrugged. "If you insist."

"_Steiner_! Steiner, stop goofing around and help the lady with her bags!" Gwen hollered upstairs. "I swear," she laughed, "good help is so hard to find these days, huh?"

Nami nodded once again.

"So what are you doing here?" the innkeeper inquired cheerily. "I heard from the new nurse that you were acquaintances, but that's all I've heard."

"I'm a weatherwoman." It was the first time those words had left Nami Stone's mouth, and though they somehow mortified her, Gwen beamed all the brighter at their sound.

"Oh, that's good! We had the most boring man on there for awhile…very dry, very nasally voice. Smart, sure, but did you want to hear him drone on and on about clouds? Not at _all_."

"I'll be sure to avoid droning, then."

Gwen laughed at that, then threw another glance up the stairs. "Oh, for the love of—Steiner, get your butt down here! Really. I know you like being with Claire, but please, do your job for once, would you?"

"Claire?" Nami heard herself murmur. It shouldn't have shaken her like it did, but hearing the familiar name woke up a side of her that had long remained dormant. A side that didn't believe in coincidence.

There was a jovial laugh, and then a thunder of footsteps down the staircase. Everything unfolded slowly for Nami then: a figure dressed in dark pants, followed by a blinding white shirt that opened at the neck to reveal even paler skin. He turned his neck so that his silver locks parted before his eyes, seeing first Gwen and then the detective standing there. _Oh my God. _His grinning visage appraised hers uncomprehendingly, and never before had Nami seen such eyes—cut from the coldest of sapphires. "Ah. You must be Ms. Stone."

Nami Stone had spent many days, and many nights, wondering if she'd ever be granted a chance like this: a clue, a hint, a damn anonymous tip that could save her sorry career before it flushed down the drain. In a single, automatic motion, the bag fell from her hands and her fingers gripped metal instead, her pistol aimed straight at this man's heart.

"And you're Skye the Phantom Thief. A pleasure to, after all this time, finally make your acquaintance. You son of a bitch."


	19. Chapter 19: Precipice

**Note: **Since I love you guys, and I'm just wtfihdgisdgWOW over last chapter's review count (way to go, overworking me the one day that I promise review replies, haha), I've decided to update early. Anyway, this chapter is what I've unofficially deemed the Nami Chapter, because she's _everywhere_. And next chapter will probably be the Claire Chapter. 'Cause in this chapter, she's nowhere.

Oh! And did anyone else notice this is OVER eighteen chapters? Dude! I haven't done that since my first fic! (Er, don't read that one, by the way. It is muy sucky.) Anyway, thank you for the support, and read. :)

_**Chapter Nineteen: **__Precipice_

Skye had perhaps imagined this scenario a thousand different ways: a policeman storming through the front door, a _Wanted_ poster staring him the face, a villager suddenly screaming out, "He's that kidnapper—he's that criminal," and watching his whole life unravel before his eyes. That moment in the Inn lobby, staring down the barrel of a gun, Skye found himself feeling oddly numb. Relieved, almost.

The game, finally, had ended.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Gwen demanded.

"Your employee is a criminal wanted for serious charges," Nami spoke flatly. Her eyes did not leave her victim's for a second; her finger lay ready at the trigger. "Put your hands up and tell me where the girl is. _Now_."

"What if I just let you shoot me? What then, Ms. Stone?"

"That's _Detective_ Stone to bastards like you." The redhead's eyes narrowed, hissing, "If you must know, I'd shoot you in the leg first. If that wasn't enough, then we'd work our way through the arms, the hands, the shoulder…I know my anatomy, Skye. There's plenty of ways to wound a man without killing him. You should know; taking a child is one of them."

_Taking a child_. Something in Gwen's heart snapped; no, this was insane, this was wrong, this...this wasn't _real_. Suddenly it seemed as if she was in a strange place, not her uncle's inn at all—and how could you see in a place that constantly shifted before your eyes? "You—who _are_ you?" Frantically she glanced from Steiner to this woman wielding a pistol, and shouted, "You're a weatherwoman! Who the hell are you to come in here and point guns at innocent people? Steiner didn't do anything!"

"His name is Skye the Phantom Thief, and on the contrary, he's done quite a lot of things."

"Bullshit!"

"_Gwen_." The man paused long enough to photograph her horrified gaze, and then whispered, "Let the woman talk."

Stunned, Gwen drew back. "You seem unsurprised," Nami challenged her victim. "Were you expecting me?"

"Not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, yes."

"So answer me, then. Did you, or did you not, kidnap Willow, the daughter of Doctor Trent and his wife, Claire?"

The thief hesitated ever so slightly. "Are you asking me if I kidnapped Claire's child?"

"Yes, smartass."

"Then I can't deny it."

"But Claire's just a baby!" Gwen blurted out. Her heart lodged in her throat, and the blonde insisted, "Steiner is not a criminal. He's just a single father trying to raise a baby on his own, all because his stupid wife left him behind. And I'll be damned if—if—" Her words disappeared from thought; she stared imploringly at her lover, and he offered her no smile, no reassuring wink. Instead, he simply waited, as if resigned to being devoid of emotion. Waiting, she realized, for her to finally understand. _Oh my God. God, no._

"Is that all, Miss Gwen?"

Gwen didn't trust herself to speak. The detective shook her head; so that was how it was, was it? Only a single look at those young amber eyes, and any idiot could see just _how_ innocent that innkeeper had been. Skye had certainly kept his silver tongue, and even if he'd left his dignity behind, the charm that'd seduced Claire had apparently remained as well.

If it weren't for police decorum, Nami would've shot him in the face right then and there. And she'd have damn loved to.

"I will tell you one thing. This man," the detective announced acidly, "has never been married in his life. He has lived a pathetic life of petty theft and lies, and what friends he's made have lasted only as long as his interest in their female anatomy. The Claire _you_ speak of," she continued, "is a child, isn't she?"

"A baby girl," Gwen whispered.

"Is she a blonde child?"

"Yes."

"Does she have blue eyes?"

"Yes."

"How old would you suspect her to be?"

"…I-I don't know."

"You say this man was married. Has he ever graced you with the name of his past spouse?"

Gwen fidgeted under this woman's scrutiny. _A lie. It __**has**__ to be a lie._ She shut her eyes to Steiner—no, it was Skye this woman had called him, wasn't?—and murmured, "No. Never."

"How about his past home?"

"No."

"His past career?"

"No."

"It would seem," Nami stated, "that for a man you seem to trust so much, 'Steiner' hasn't given you much to be trusted with." The girl couldn't tell, but the detective ached to erase the wounded look in those eyes, the shattered heart that had been whole mere minutes before. Only by listing all these things, one by one, could Nami pry away the layer of fiery indignation coating Gwen's heart, and only through this pain could she force Gwen to see the monster hiding behind his lovely words.

Skye would pay for that. Damn him, he'd _pay_.

"Where is the girl?" Nami questioned, and Skye answered before Gwen did:

"Upstairs."

"Miss Gwen," the redhead asked, gently, "would you please go to your phone and call the number I'm about to give you? I'm going to need back-up."

Her head reeled; Gwen blinked, the words barely registering. She felt dizzy, so sick she could barely stand, as if all these conflicting emotions were churning within the pit of her stomach. "I'm sorry…what do you need, I didn't quite—?"

"The phone. Please."

With each step, the girl found herself relearning how to walk on these wobbly legs. The boots made a strange, almost earsplitting sound as she staggered to her uncle's counter; shaking hands grabbed the phone off the hook. Eyes lit with unsure passion met Nami's before daring to see Steiner's—Skye's—once more.

_Just tell me she's lying. Do it, and I'll believe you. All you have to do is deny it._

He broke off the contact and turned to the floor: a slap leaving her speechless and convinced of her own stupidity.

"Miss Gwen?" The detective spoke her name almost as if it were an apology. "Are you ready?"

_No. _"Detective Stone," Gwen answered feebly, "why wouldn't I be?"

* * *

Skye had never sat in a jail cell before. Cold cinder-block cushioned his head and body, and he tried to remember the last time, exactly, he'd felt so alone. Nobody wound up in the prisons of the Flowerbud countryside all that often; in fact, he was willing to bet he was the only criminal in the whole place. Not that he could see through his walls. Not that he'd really tried.

He turned his head to the side, and he saw a little spider crawling up and down the far corner of the prison. Silk tied up and down in different weaves, all frightfully trying to achieve both beauty and seduction with the quickest of ease. Yet a spider web, for all its enticing danger, could be pulled apart with a single swing, no matter how transparent the web he wove.

"Skye." A door shut from somewhere, and that redhead woman stared at him from behind the door, frowning. She'd brought a chair with her, and that piqued his interest; she intended to talk, and she intended to make it long. "I've been the detective assigned—reassigned," she corrected herself, "to your case."

"I figured."

"Other than me, you will not get many visitors." She hesitated. "Frankly, you will not stay here long at all. The crime committed at Forget-Me-Not will bring you back to Forget-Me-Not for your trial. For now, you're being held here for the arraignment."

Skye nodded slowly. Nami pursed her lips, opening them as if to speak, then closing them to consider words better suited to his ears. "You don't have a lawyer yet, I understand, but you will receive one. Either way, I would get used to prison walls; no judge is going to give you bail. You're too much of a flight hazard."

Again, Skye nodded. He watched as Nami played with a pen over her legal pad, intelligent eyes scanning over past notes and reminders. "I'm supposed to ask you questions," she announced. "Get down a full interview, you could say. But I feel that's more of a formality than anything. Willow's back. After that, you getting into prison—for a long, long time—is all that matters to the victim's family and to the police force. It's always been more about Willow than you, despite what you might think."

"Willow." The thief couldn't say why he felt the need to repeat the name; all this time, he'd known her by nothing more than a face and a memory. "Where is she now?"

"At the precinct. She's in our care until her parents arrive. I believe that'll be sooner than later, so I'd prepare myself for that meeting if I were you." The detective sighed. "To start with, Skye, know your rights. You don't have to do this until your attorney is assigned, and if you'd like you can remain silent. Or I can just interrogate you. Your pick."

"I have nothing to hide." _Not anymore_.

"May I begin, then, with the kidnapping. How did you—" _How did you do it_, she'd almost asked. But such a question had no meaning, did it? Nami glanced over her notes again, all routine questionings, and found herself hard-pressed to care about any of their answers. "Skye…" She dropped the legal pad to the floor, eyes searching his. "Why? Why did you feel that you had the right to take that baby girl? To risk your life, and your future, for some ex-girlfriend's daughter?"

Skye half-smiled. His haggard face leaned towards the metal bars, and Nami could see each bead of sweat on his brow as he whispered, "Why don't you go ask Claire, Detective Stone? She knows, if not more, just as much as I do. And from the look on your face, I'd say you don't know a damn thing."

* * *

Heartbreak couldn't be restricted to a dull ache in the chest. It didn't just pull at you through tears; it tugged at you like a puppet on strings, reminding you constantly that you were no longer in charge of your own life. But you'd never been, had you? Only difference was that, now, you were tired of playing the fool. Now, you realized you _were_ one.

Back when Bob had kindly let her down with sweet words of encouragement, Gwen could have sworn her heart had splintered in two. Hadn't she cried? Muffled her pain with her pillow? Been jealous, hurt, and confused?

It'd been nothing but a bruise on a strong and able heart. She knew that, tonight.

"_I can't imagine that kind of rejection or that kind of pain. It's not possible for me." _

'Hold onto that,' he'd said. 'Don't lose that,' he'd said.

Damn easy for him to say, wasn't it? Now that he'd ruined her.

For the first time in ages, Gwen had left a _Closed_ sign on the Inn's doors during the week. She'd had no business over at the police station, not really; Stei—no, _Skye_ had been the one they'd wanted. Still, her puppet strings kept her following this man, and his magnetic pull on her did not lessen just because her trust in him had. She sat in the lobby, alone in the corner, wiping her eyes and fighting to understand things she knew she could not. Claire—no, it was _Willow_ now—bounced on her knee, an oblivious little ray of sunshine in a dark and broken sky. Her little hands would pat Gwen's cheeks, and Gwen would cuddle her closer, as if brushing against this child's innocence could restore some of her own.

"Hey." Gwen looked up to see someone holding an embroidered handkerchief her way. "Take it. God knows you need it."

Sniffling loudly, she did so. As the tears were wiped away, the figure became clearer; the man's physique and simple smile immediately distinguished him as Bob, and the blonde turned away, ashamed. "Wh-what are you doing here?" _Why do you have to see me fall apart again? Wasn't it enough the first time?_

"I've been called here, actually." He hesitated. "I would've come anyway, though. Really."

"I…I appreciate it, but you didn't have to." Gwen wiped her nose, and Willow imitated her, giggling with delight at her mimicry. "I mean, crying girls aren't exactly, you know, worth seeing. We get all red-eyed and blotchy and pathetic a-and—" The sobs came on stronger, and this time Willow's smile faltered at the sound. Bob sat himself beside them both and fit his arm comfortingly about Gwen's shoulders.

"You're not pathetic, alright? You're _hurt_. There's a world of difference."

"Maybe to you, but I should've known better. I gave him…" She ducked her head behind Willow's and sobbed. "I gave him _everything_. My first kiss, my secrets, my past, my dreams, my…my…" _My heart_. And that, Gwen knew, was the one thing you never got back whole. "I'm s-sorry. I should stop. Y-you're here for a reason…right?"

"Bodyguard duty," he answered. "I'm the only man up to the job, they tell me. Tina's okay with it, though, so." He shrugged as the final word hung off into nothing. "Believe me, I won't let him escape from this, Gwen. You're my best friend. I don't want any criminal who's hurt you to go around hurting anyone else."

"Oh, Bob." A quick squeeze of his hand said a thousand words for her, and the three sat together, waiting in silence for something none of them could name. The clatter of a door opening interrupted them, and Detective Stone walked out, her teeth clenched and the pad in her hand a mess of angry scribbles. Her eyes fluttered towards theirs for a moment and she raised an eyebrow.

"You're the bodyguard? Bob?"

He straightened up as best he could. "I reckon I am, ma'am."

"Excellent. This door," she gestured, "is now the most important thing in your life. It is Skye's only exit, and therefore of the utmost importance. Remember that." She looked at Gwen, softened, and extended her arms. "I'll take baby Willow, if you don't mind."

Gwen frowned; her fingers wove through Willow's tufts of hair. "Maybe I do mind."

"You can't just stay here with her, Miss Gwen."

"I could," she insisted. "I—I could just sit here, waiting, and when her parents…"

Nami shook her head. "Let that be my burden, not yours. Handing off the child to me," she persuaded, "is easier than handing her off to the real mother, isn't it?"

On either side, Gwen saw Bob nodding and Nami waiting with open arms. She'd once asked Eve, some seasons ago, why she'd broken up and gotten back together with Dan as often as she had; hadn't the glue between them begun to unstick? "_You can only lose something if you choose to let it go_," she'd told the cook, and at this moment, Gwen knew she had no choice but to hand off this beautiful cherub into Nami Stone's steady and sure arms.

"Ma…" Willow's eyes lit up with alarm, and her arms began to flail, her mouth red and cheeks aflame. "Ma! Ma! Ma…"

Gwen could sense her soul cracking: stained glass shattered by a battering ram with each syllable from those tiny lips. "Willow, I'm…I'm not your Ma. I've never been your Ma." _But I could have been_. _Once._

She waited for the tears to spring at Nami's departure. She waited for the water-show to recommence, for the same anguished shame to overtake her as her body moved of its own accord: a record replaying grief over and over again.

Nothing happened as she sat on that bench, and yet, she'd never been so tormented.

When Gwen was small, she'd decided to become best friends with a girl named Nina. Nina giggled a lot, shared her flowers, and played truth-or-dare with the strictest of confidence. "_Who do you like?_" she'd asked Gwen once, and the blonde had tried to weasel out of it before admitting her crush to be Bob. With another giggle, Nina had just left it at that, until Gwen discovered everyone had found out from the girl someway or another.

"_People aren't always the way they first seem to be_," her mother had told her with a sigh. "_You have to be careful who you trust_."

Some lessons, apparently, you had to learn twice.

* * *

"That's some damn good work, Stone."

Nami shrugged, the child in her lap fascinated by the red shade of her hair. Willow, despite all the facts against it, sat now in her lap: a smiling, healthy, and happy one-year-old child. All this fuss, and yet she hadn't seemed to notice a damn thing had happened. It was almost enviable, really.

"Just a few weeks ago, no one would've thought you could do a lick of decent work, and yet here you are, the mastermind behind the whole arrest. You lucky bitch, your pay and publicity have shot through the _roof_—you'll never have to do a single weather report, will ya?"

The detective concentrated instead on Willow's hands: tiny, fairy hands that fit in the center of her own like fragile, precious rosebuds. "Yes, luck was a factor," she spoke finally. "I owe much to it." _And many others owe it nothing_. Shifting Willow in her arms, she stood up, and calmly walked away from the man who once signed her paychecks. He'd never needed her before, and she wasn't accustomed to being needed by him now.

"Good work, Stone!"

"Hey, let's get drinks later, alright?"

"Lucky, lucky bitch!"

Again, she ignored them all, going outside to sit under the sunlight and wonder, with a little sigh, why the greatest achievement of her life had brought the most heartrending emptiness with it.

Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID. The Inner Inn, undoubtedly Gustafa. She considered answering it, telling him all her heart's woes and triumphs, pouring her worries into his oh-so-large heart. He'd reassure her, tell her exactly what she needed to hear, and remind her she had done her best no matter what.

Somehow, she mused as she hung the phone up, knowing that someone was willing to listen was, on its own, good enough. Besides, she'd be wiser to save her lifelines for when Claire arrived. Because, if Skye's words held water, all hell was about to break loose.


	20. Chapter 20: Cherished

**Note: **I'm so scared I'm going to fudge all the legal stuff ahead, but hopefully you're all going to forgive me for relying on novels and television and the internet for my research. Ack, I'm **awful** at being all technical, so we'll see how this goes. And is it safe to say writing this story has made me fall head-over-_heels_ for Gustafa? No? Okay, I'll keep my bizarre epiphanies to myself from now on. xD

And special thanks to **HmGirly**, my 200th reviewer, as well as my 199th and 201st reviewer! Haha, thanks a bunch, you crazy Australian chica. You know I love ya.

_**Chapter Twenty: **__Cherished_

The train refused to move fast enough. Claire's fingers dug into Trent's hands with each stifled scream of frustration; her heart beat fasted than this ridiculous contraption could move down the tracks. "_My baby's waiting for me_," she wanted to cry. "_You don't understand. I have to see her._" Her husband would squeeze back, and the look in his eyes would reassure her that someone in this world did, actually, understand.

Across from them, another unlikely passenger had stolen along; Gustafa sat comfortably beside a troupe of actors, whipping out his guitar to accompany them. "Alright, Desdemona, let 'er rip!" he laughed, and one of the girls—some twiggy young thing—began to sing a song, one that Claire recalled, from the recesses in her mind, as Shakespeare.

"_The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree._

_Sing all a green willow._

_Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,_

_Sing willow, willow, willow_."

"_Othello_," Trent whispered in her ear. "That's the play they're reciting."

"_The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans,_

_Sing willow, willow, willow._

_Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones_

_Sing willow, willow, willow—_

_Lay by these—_

_Willow, willow—"_

Claire cleared her throat. "I don't recall a Willow in that play."

"There isn't one."

"_Prithee, hie thee, he'll come anon—_

_Sing all a green willow must be my garland._

_Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve—_"

"Desdemona sings that song. It's her second-to-last scene in the play," Trent continued. "She's trying to understand why her husband is so upset at her, and it's because he believes she's—" He averted his eyes and said, delicately, "He thinks she's being unfaithful."

"O-oh." The blonde watched on as the actress dabbed at wet eyes, and the others applauded her fine recitation. "That play…is a tragedy, isn't it?"

"Othello kills his wife, yes. Even though she is innocent." Gustafa strummed up another song, and suddenly they switched from _Othello_ to _Rent_, belting out "525,600 Minutes" and letting the fake tears dry away. Trent and Claire watched for a minute, and then the doctor kissed her softly on the cheek, adding, "That's the difference between real life and plays. We aren't doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again each curtain call, are we?"

His little words of comfort brought a smile to Claire's lips, and she nuzzled her head into his shoulder. "Thank God."

* * *

"He was such a jerk."

"Complete creeper."

"I knew I hated him."

"You're better off without him, Gwen."

The words piled higher than the baskets of goodies could, and Gwen nodded, each passionate statement from her friends feeding a dull and dead fire. Katie had stuffed her baskets with pastries and cakes, Eve had smuggled some of Dan's best wine over to drown out her sadness ("never mind drinking ages, Gwen, no one here really gives a crap"), and they had slammed "Steiner" for thirty minutes straight. Yet Gwen hadn't said a word, just kept nodding.

_Lies. You two are lying to me, too._

She'd become sensitive to that as of late: lying. Even her uncle did it; he told her he'd taken a bet with Duke over being able to handle the Inn for a week without her help. Instead, he could've just said, "_I want you to take time off. I'm sorry he hurt you_." But lying was supposed to spare her feelings. Lying, apparently, was supposed to stop her from feeling like crap.

"Didn't I say there was something odd about him, Eve?"

"Oh, definitely. Definitely odd."

_Then why were you raving about him before? Telling me how happy you were for us? I'm not a child. I can handle the truth._

Leaving the station had been harder than she'd anticipated. Part of her had hoped, deep down, she'd be some sort of Florence Nightingale who could swoop into the jail cell and cure whatever ailed this man. But she needed curing, too. She was in no condition to willingly hurt herself again with a look from those eyes.

"Hey, Gwen? I was talking with Joe, and he said Kurt might be interested in a double date if you're—"

"No, I'm not open." The reply came out colder than Gwen had intended, but she didn't apologize at the pained look in Katie's eyes. Of course her friend had only been helping; she knew that. But she also knew what a joke it would be for her to date now. Love wasn't a band-aid for pain; it was the reward for overcoming it. And, other times, it was the poison itself.

"W-well, if you ever change your mind, y'know, I'll tell him." Katie straightened herself up and, at a loss, began to leave the Inn. "I've, uh, got something to do. Eve?"

"Oh, yes, I think I've got something going on as well," the barmaid agreed. "Good luck, Gwen—really."

"Have fun," she drawled. _Liars._

Gwen scrubbed at the counter until her hands rubbed red; she stared at her reflection until she forgot she was the red-eyed doppelganger looking up at her. Never before had she felt so…_bitter_, so full of disgusting _anger_. So sick inside.

"Excuse me?"

Her eyes shot up to meet a young man, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and his mouth twisted into a concerned smile. "What do you want?" she forced out.

"A room for one. That okay?" He paused. "Actually, are _you_ okay?"

_What the hell does it look like to you? _"I'm Gwen," she said instead. "How—how long will you be staying, sir?"

"Oh, good question. Don't know. Can I just pay you day-by-day?" He messed with his big green hat, then added, "The name's Gustafa. G-u-s-t-a-f-a."

"Gu…staf…a. Got it." Gwen blew a strand of hair from her face and grimaced. "Sorry, I'm not trying to be—what's the word—short-fused. It's a bad day, y'know?"

The man in green nodded. "We all get them. Totally understand where you're coming from."

A startled laugh burst out at that. "_Do_ you?" Gwen inquired, the snarky undertones something she wasn't proud of at all, but unwilling to suppress as well. "Really, now?"

"Oh, you never know. Maybe." Gustafa shrugged, her biting comments water rolling off his back. "I don't think it's fair to judge people you've never met. All the same, I hope things look up for ya, Gwen." He took the key from her hands, tugged his hat, and walked upstairs carrying—she noticed belatedly—a guitar as well as a tiny bag on his shoulders.

"Hey, do you need any help?"

"I'm good!" he shouted down to her. "Don't worry about me."

The blonde couldn't help it; the guilt panged her with each cheerful word the guitarist spoke. _Any other day, I'd have loved to talk to a customer like that. Real nice guy. _Tomorrow, she'd give him breakfast on the house. Definitely.

"Are you the manager here?"

"Yeah, what do you need?" Gwen swerved about then covered her mouth, the strangest sound sneaking out. "Holy…!"

"What is it?" the woman demanded. "Is there something on my face?"

_Yes, _she wanted to say. _Baby Claire's eyes._

* * *

It made Claire absolutely furious to be wasting time getting a place at the Inn. Yet Detective Nami Stone had called, and she'd warned Trent about the limited space (apparently, Willow's appearance had called quite a few people here), telling him to grab a room as soon as they arrived.

"Absolutely not," Claire had decided.

An hour later, here they were.

The girl at the reception counter had the most obnoxious habit of staring at her and Trent with these wide goldfish eyes. She was a very young woman, hair still in a ponytail like a high school girl, and Claire would've been forsaken by her parents if she'd ever worn one of _those_ shirts at her age.

"My wife and I need a room," Trent interceded; Claire _knew_ she loved this man for a reason. "Is that possible right now?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." The manager-girl shook her head, pale as a sheet, and pulled out a room key with unsteady hands. "Wh-what names should I put it under?"

"Doctor Trent and Claire."

"Claire." Was this kid _laughing_? "Of course. Should've known."

Claire itched to wipe that smile off this ponytailed teenybopper's face; why, she couldn't have been older than eighteen, and if she had heard about the kidnapping and the woman who'd been stupid enough to lose her child, well, then this farmer would have no qualms with beating her face in for finding the shittiest part of her life hysterical.

"How long will you be staying?" the manager inquired.

"Can we pay by day? We're unsure at the moment," Trent, ever the calm and steady doctor, answered. "Right, Claire?" Or, in marriage-speak, "_Stop glaring and nod. She's just a kid."_

"One room for you, then." Claire swiped the key from her fingers, and was it her imagination, or did this girl shudder at her touch? "Um, the name's Gwen, if you need anything," she added.

"We'll be just fine, I imagine," Claire snapped, her attempt at copying her husband's nonchalance failing miserably. "Trent, can we leave now?"

"Certainly."

Maybe Claire was just being paranoid, but she could swear Gwen had watched them walking out the door, onto the street, until they'd gone completely out of sight.

* * *

Gina hadn't expected, of all things, to wind up Skye's analyst. Part of her couldn't seem to separate the man before her from the monster that sometimes leaked into Claire's confessions, and yet, the broken criminal waiting in his cell certainly didn't match with that description at all. "Thank you for your time, Mister Skye," she said with a smile as she stood up. "It's been a pleasure speaking with you."

"So what do you think then, doc?" His lips curved into a wry grin. "Am I crazy?"

It surprised Gina how often she received that question. 'Crazy' didn't really describe what people assumed: screaming lunatics with wild hair and eyes endangering everyone around them. She fiddled with her glasses then looked down at her notes. "I wouldn't worry about that."

"So that's a yes."

"It's nothing of the sort," she clarified. "I will be honest at your trial, should you have one, because you, Claire, and the law expect nothing less of me. And I will be honest with you now: don't worry about this at the moment." Her brown eyes softened, and she added, "I must go, but I'll see you again. I promise."

She opened the door, and a buff man—Bob, he'd introduced himself—admitted her out before locking the door firmly behind her. "Isn't it horrible?" she found herself saying to him and no one in particular. "That people can make mistakes that reach this far. Such a shame." Shaking her blue braids, she stepped out to the next room, and her eyes locked on another pair: blue and bright.

"Gina!" Claire ran to her with a dumbfounded grin, embracing her in a shocked hug. "I didn't know you would be here!"

"I expected you sooner or later," the nurse laughed, enjoying this look of delight on her past client's face. Never before had she seemed so radiant, so in love with life. It made Gina feel proud, almost. "I'm here to judge the mental state of your kidnapper."

"Oh." Claire's euphoria was tempered a bit by this, but she still smiled. "I'm here to find my daughter. I just arrived, and could you tell me—?"

"Willow is next door," Gina instructed her. "So stop talking to me and run right in there, Claire."

Gina leaned in the doorway, and she watched as Trent and Claire dashed inside the little room, as they began crying out with joy as a little child turned a curious head their way, as a long-awaited prayer, finally, was answered.

* * *

If Willow could speak, Claire would have told her daughter a thousand things: _I've missed you more than you can imagine. I've cried so much, I could barely speak. My life lost meaning. My heart gave out. But I never stopped hoping, Willow, never._

_I'll never lose you again._

Selfishly, she had curled her arms about this baby girl like a fortress—not again, never again, would her baby be stolen from her. Trent completed their circle, and Willow looked up with the biggest blue eyes, somehow recognizing the two without knowing who they were.

"You're alright. Oh my God, oh my God, you're _alright_." They kissed her little blonde head over and over again; they laughed; they cried; they tried to remember the last moment they'd held their baby daughter so close.

Nami found the whole event fascinating.

Maybe it sounded heartless; maybe most honest thoughts were. She cocked her head at them, studied Claire's and Trent's desperate devotion, and couldn't help but wonder how being the child showered with such praise felt. It wasn't that she missed having it growing up; it was that she'd never _known_ what she was missing, period.

The detective wasn't naïve enough to think her parents weren't doing the best thing for her: an alcoholic father and a flighty mother were no role models, she knew that. In fact, she applauded them for putting her up for adoption; foster care raised her far better than they could have. Nami had met many fellow adopted and foster children who had expressed interest in meeting their parents, but to be honest, she'd never been one of them.

Still. Moments like this, watching a family so adoring and in love, made her wonder if she'd missed something, after all. If she, in Claire's place, could ever love someone that strongly.

"Skye's in a cell here," the redhead felt compelled to announce. "Nothing fancy, just a DUI place…used for pretty much everything but DUIs." Claire's head snapped towards her with interest, and Nami added, "If you're looking to talk to him, visitation isn't approved yet. He's under arrest, and he's not going anywhere until his arraignment this week. Got a lawyer?"

Trent shook his head. "No, I'm afraid we—"

"I think we do," Claire interrupted, taking his arm. "He can be here as soon as he needs to be."

"Excellent. I'll catch you up-to-speed on the case's developments momentarily; I have a feeling you don't wish to be disturbed now." Nami took her leave, and Trent turned to his wife, eyebrows shot up with surprise.

"Who is this lawyer, and why do I not know him?" he demanded. "Some ex-boyfriend of yours in college, I presume?"

Claire laughed and shook her head. "Jack O'Neil. Or, as you might better recall, my cousin who spilled potato salad on you last spring."

* * *

Skye had never seen her before, but that didn't matter much anymore; seeing anyone was better than staring at the wall. He'd counted all the blocks on each side of his prison; he'd imagined different patterns for the cracks in the ceiling, like constellations in the sky. Now, he instead honed in on this newcomer's thin-lipped smile, her no-nonsense eyes, and her silky straight indigo tresses.

"Skye, I gather?" she spoke—the thief was no judge, but God, her diction was _flawless_. "My name is Maria Monett. You may or may not know me as the librarian here; actually, I graduated from law school some time ago, and am licensed as a defense attorney in this region. I have not had cause to use my license here as of yet, but I certainly am qualified."

"So you're on my side," he commented with a lazy smile.

"My job is to get you out of this mess, whether or not it's of your own making," she continued, unabashed. "Unless you'd rather plead guilty. I will do whichever you prefer, as my client."

Skye liked Maria, he did. To be honest, Skye liked all women, but his lawyer had this resolve buried under her drab gray garb and meek appearance—he could just _tell_. Discovering the person underneath their persona had become sort of a passion of his, and Maria, he knew, would be a strength to be reckoned with in a courtroom.

"Have you read my interview with Detective Stone?" he asked first. Maria shrugged.

"As far as I could see, your damage wasn't undoable."

"Then you must know, Ms. Monett," Skye replied, "that I'm pleading Not Guilty."

* * *

Nami dragged her feet up the stairs with almost as much relish as she'd drive a screw through her skull. It'd been awkward enough stumbling past that Gwen girl again without tossing a pity glance, and as much as she wanted to sleep, the case wasn't over; yes, Skye had been caught, but that was only act one, wasn't it? Until he was behind bars, she'd never sleep.

Or maybe, Nami admitted to herself, her insomnia was due more to dread than to resolve.

The Inn had started filling up fast; already, the rooms across and beside her own had DO NOT DISTURB signs flagging their doors. One she just knew to be Claire and Trent's, mostly by the perfectly folded towels outside their door and their perfectly forgotten state. If she were a mother (which she wasn't, and at this rate, might never be), and she were reunited with her child, Nami could imagine not caring about moist towelettes, either.

The redhead sluggishly pulled herself into her room and fished through the paper littering her desk after just a handful of days. She'd already Xeroxed a couple of the sheets at the precinct; these she stuffed into a manila folder, sealed shut and labeled with the strictest of warnings.

She hated to rain on Claire and Trent's parade, but that had always been Nami's job, hadn't it? From the beginning, she'd brought them grief…until she'd found Willow. Now, she'd be back at square one. Again.

With a quick knock, and a taping of the folder to the door, she turned back to her room…and screamed.

"Fancy seeing you here!" the mirage exclaimed, his guitar hanging loosely in his arms. "I don't suppose my music's disturbing you, is it?"

"Who the hell," Nami sputtered out, "do you think you are?" Then, as Gustafa's grin broadened at her clichéd greeting, she stormed towards him and, shaking her head as she buried it into his shoulder, choked out, "What _took_ you so long?"

* * *

_Say what you like about me; I don't care. Since when has my opinion mattered; since when should yours?_

His eyelids shut closed, his mind echoing with the tick of an imaginary clock. Tick, tick, tick. He had no idea what time it was; did that matter? It could be day, or it could be night. Skye really didn't know. He didn't really know if he cared, either.

Maria had left long ago; the door had been locked, oh, _years_ in Skye's mind. By now, baby Willow would be in Claire's care. By now, Gwen will have cried and screamed until all the breath had been knocked from her. By now, Nami Stone will be drinking champagne with her paycheck, and by now, a lawyer somewhere will be plotting some plan to rip apart Maria's.

_By now, Claire might remember. By now, she might be forced to._

The image danced in his mind: her beautiful curved form appearing from nowhere, radiant with delight and triumph. Then, the paper of the interview finds its way into her hands, and she reads until the fine print blurs and the truths break free.

**STONE**: _Why did you kidnap her?_

**SKYE**: _If someone had kept your daughter from you, Detective Stone, would you have sat there, watching her live a lie? This was more than a jealous boyfriend stealing a baby girl. This was a father, fighting to get the daughter he deserved all along._

**STONE**: _So_ _Willow is…your daughter? Not Trent's?_

And then, the single syllables that would shudder through Claire long after they'd been read:

**SKYE**: _Yes_. _Mine_.


	21. Chapter 21: Daisy Chains

**Note**: Don't quote me on this, but I think next chapter will be the trial. Yeah. I think so. It'll last more than one chapter, though, I think. Um, I'm not sure, haha. But I think we'll hit twenty-five chapters! (It'll be a new record for me! Whoo!) And I'm fascinated by everyone's different thoughts on how the trial ought to end up. Hm…mayhap I have an ace or two up my sleeve? –hint hint- Anyway, thanks for reading, guys! You rock!

_**Chapter Twenty-One: **__Daisy Chains_

"_Claire, about what you wanted to tell me. I think I already know. I think I always knew."_

Raindrops fell in tiny little crystal spheres, their sound a xylophone splattering against the windowpane. Trent stared at their symphony before glancing back down at the baby in his arms. Willow shuddered at the cold air; he snuggled her closer. How could he hold her in his arms, he wondered now, without knowing in his heart the possible truth?

He hadn't. And yet, it hadn't seemed to matter, either.

The police file had sent his wife storming, and he knew, just from seeing her eyes, what it said: Skye had spoken what each had suspected all along. So what business did Trent have, holding this beautiful child when her two parents seemed to be fighting tooth and nail for her embrace?

"Hey." He brushed her barely-visible hair from her eyes. "I love you, Willow. You know that, don't you?"

Genetics may link family; Trent, as a doctor, knew this all too well. They could determine your eyes, your hair, the dimples in your cheek. Yet they did not give you love, and that, Trent knew, was what made a father different from a DNA donor: you _loved_ your child, no matter what.

And even if it were true—that the man Claire had rushed off to see was Willow's true father—Trent would still be honored to receive the title spoken from those tiny lips.

Maybe Willow didn't have his blood, but Trent could promise her his love. And, in the end, wasn't that what mattered?

* * *

"You don't understand. I have to speak with him." The simple, dumbfounded guard shook his head and Claire gritted her teeth; she'd hauled herself up there in the middle of the night, dressed in pajamas with boots at their bottom. Claire drew her mouth into the thinnest of lines and repeated, "I need to speak with the prisoner. Surely that's not going to be any trouble?"

"He's not approved for visitation."

"I don't care."

"Well, ma'am, you don't have the right to—"

"The _right_?" Claire's eyes narrowed; her voice took on the taste of iron and resolve. "Who gave him the _right_ to steal my baby girl? Who gave him the _right_ to ask for custody, after a whole year of stealing and thieving and womanizing? And now _I_ don't have the right to speak to the man who dared to throw himself in my child's life? I have more right than anyone here!"

Bob stammered, trying as best as he could to calm this infuriated mother before him. He could have pushed her aside like a toothpick; he could've barked at her, told her to stand in line. But a voice behind him—"Let her in"—somehow convinced him to move aside. Detective Stone would kill him for it later, but something told him that if he didn't, Claire would kill him _now_.

Claire had mulled over what to say to him for the past hour, piecing together a speech so vitriolic that it could burn in your ears like acid, venomous and cruel. Yet as the door closed behind her, and she breathed in the damp, cold air of the prison, a strange lightness filled her. _Finally, I have the upper hand. And I'll be damned if he thinks he can break apart my life again._

"So. You're here."

The silhouette in the cell lifted his shaggy silver head and stared at her with ocean eyes; they had once danced in her dreams, these eyes. Now, they haunted every nightmare and every fear locked inside her soul. Claire caught her breath in time, letting out in a single, shaky blow.

"…You bastard."

"Nice to see you, fair maiden," he greeted in reply.

The muscle in Claire's jaw tightened. How many girls had heard those same words, spoken from his forked tongue? How many hearts had he poisoned, besides her own? "How could you. How dare you. Just who the hell do you think you are?" He watched her through dull, empty eyes, and Claire could feel her anger rising like a moth swallowed in flames. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and Claire could swear her nails were drawing blood; it just hurt so _much_ to see him there, numb and unfeeling. "Well? Do you have anything to say?"

Skye's lips remained shut. Claire quivered, the indignation swelling and swelling until it was fit to burst, and her voice rose: "Was it too much to see me happy? Was it really so awful, that I could have had a life without you in it? She's my baby, for God's sakes! My _baby_, not some pawn in your sick and twisted game of revenge!"

She'd thought it'd be fury she'd unload on this man, and yet, Claire found herself in tears. She blinked, and they fell in rhythm with the rain outside: waterfalls of remorse and anguish slipping down her cheeks. "You…you monster, how could you do this to me? To _her_?"

The thief stood up slowly, so slowly that Claire hadn't realized he'd been rising at all. "How could I?" he repeated softly. "How could _you_, Claire?"

She sniffled loudly, and for the first time realized it wasn't emptiness reflected in those eyes, but _regret_. Regret for learning, too late, of a child he could have had. For having to lose a child before he'd ever gotten to know her name. For having to reciprocate the pain of that loss in order to learn of the joy of that gain.

"You'll never take her from me again. Never."

"That's not for you to decide anymore," Skye murmured.

"And you think because you played God, you deserve to play father, too?" Claire shook her head, and a sob ripped from her throat as she kicked at the bars, helpless and vulnerable. "G-go to hell."

The door shut behind her long before Skye whispered to himself, "I just might."

* * *

It occurred to Mr. O'Neil that he had put on an Armani suit and tie for just about the most run-down, hick courtroom imaginable. It'd been horrible enough traveling on foot from the village to the precinct; if he'd known those roads were dirt, he'd have brought sneakers along for the ride.

"Of all the people to drag me down into the sticks," he'd sighed, "I didn't expect it of you, Claire."

"You know how important this is, don't you, Jack?" the farmer had replied, dodging the barb neatly. "You know what you're doing, don't you?"

And, for the fortieth time that day, Jack O'Neil had replied: "Yes."

Prosecuting had been a natural career for him, not necessarily because Jack wanted to stick criminals in jail, but because he'd always been a dissenter of sorts, and he found getting paid to argue outdid being nagged for it. Besides, being young, roguishly handsome, and bright-eyed, he inspired enough trust from juries to achieve some sort of repute.

However, these charms don't work on relatives. Which explained why Jack couldn't wheedle his way out of this case and, consequently, this town.

"You can do this," his cousin had prodded. "For Willow."

For Willow. Yes. And his ever-faithful paycheck.

* * *

Skye hadn't expected to be handcuffed. Of course, in all the shows and the books, that was how this appeared, wasn't it? The villain enters with his hands and legs in irons and sneers at the crowd, daring them to convict him.

Even if this was only the arraignment, Maria had instructed him to avoid any and all sneering. "You're the charming boy from down the lane," she reminded him. "You are sweet, caring, and above all, you want what's best for Willow. Look the part."

"Mr. Skye." The judge leaned over the podium to catch a better look at the silver-haired thief; to his surprise, the judge was female. "I see we have a complaint stating that you are a fugitive from justice accused of kidnapping. Well, I'll speak to your lawyer, then; Ms. Monett, would your client prefer to waive or contest extradition?"

"We'd like to waive it, please. No warrant seeking is necessary," Maria stated.

"Very well, then." The judge nodded. "I suppose bail isn't a problem, then?"

"Not at all." As Skye had so eloquently told her before, he had no other place to go.

The judge ("_Judge WP_," Skye heard a bailiff call her in passing) leaned back in her seat; long blonde curls tumbled down those jet black robes, and amber eyes surveyed prosecutor and defense attorney respectively. "I suppose that settles everything?"

"Not everything," Maria added in swiftly. "If it pleases Your Honor, we'd like a restriction order placed against the prosecution's client, Ms. Claire."

O'Neil jumped up like a shot, his mouth round with an objection. "Your Honor, this is ridiculous. On what grounds?"

"She barged into the defendant's cell yesterday, without proper visitation, and verbally harassed him." Maria shrugged. "With Ms. Claire's background, and her obvious feelings towards my client, perhaps Your Honor will agree with me when I say that she cannot be trusted to act rationally while in the defendant's presence."

"That is completely unreasonable, Your Honor," O'Neil protested. "Ms. Claire has obviously done nothing except express her opinion; she has _certainly_ done nothing violent, and I call into question Ms. Monett's dismissal of her 'background.' "

"Perhaps not violent," the judge conceded, "but forcing entry into the prison to release a few pent-up words seems a little extreme in my eyes. And I'll remind the prosecution that I'll interpret Ms. Claire's actions however I see fit, Counselor."

Jack O'Neil, withering, took his seat.

"I hereby set no bail, and restrict Ms. Claire from anymore visits—lawfully permissible or otherwise—to the defendant." A slam of the gavel. "Next case?"

"Hot damn," Skye whispered despite himself, and Maria tucked that little compliment into her pocket, a winning smile remaining on her face for the rest of the day.

* * *

"You were incredible."

"I'll be even more incredible if I can get you out of this mess," Maria muttered to herself. Still, Skye had seen the pink blush of pride seep into her cheeks, and he liked it there. She didn't give herself enough credit, not really. "It's only my first case," she admitted. "I…sort of want to do it for me as much as I want to do it for you."

"But you don't even know if I'm innocent or not."

"That's not an attorney's job. It's a jury's." She pulled out some papers and sighed. "I've motioned for a speedy trial, if that's alright with you."

Skye shrugged. "I don't mind."

"And since Forget-me-Not, apparently, _has_ no courts nearby," she continued with a little disdain, "we're holding it here. So the judge you met today? She'll most likely be the one to hear your case."

Skye recalled the picture of her in his mind: a tall, intimidating woman with wild blonde curls and fiery eyes. "Judge WP."

"Yes."

"WP. What does that even stand for?"

Maria hesitated, playing with her long hair before replying. "W-well…her last name is, er, Princess, and…WP sounded more professional than Judge Princess." Her cheeks colored. "You are not to tell a single soul you know this, by the way."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I suppose that's as good an oath as any." Her blue bangs fell across her face; the hair band had been removed today, making her look more disheveled and worrisome. She caught Skye's look and smiled. "Oh, and if I may, who did you plan to be your character witness?"

"Character witness?" Skye repeated.

"Well, we can't very well only have _one_ opinion of you on the stand—especially when that one opinion is Claire's. We need someone who can attest that you're able to care for this baby," Maria insisted. "Have you formed any bonds with the villages here? Perhaps the man running the Inn you stayed at?"

Skye paused. _"Is it…childish…that no matter what you tell me, or what you've done, I'm probably still going to love you as much as I do right now?" _For the first time, he let the locked emotion prick at his eyes, and he turned to face the wall. Cinderblock didn't care what pretenses he upheld. "There is…one person."

"Name?"

"Gwen. The daughter of the innkeeper." Skye swallowed. "We were…close."

"Define close."

Skye took in a shaky breath. "We were in love."

* * *

Gwen answered hundreds of phone calls over the years at her uncle's Inn. The quick grab of the phone, the rapid "Hello, Doug's Inn; Gwen speaking" that rolled off her tongue, and the thoughtless scribbling down of information was a dull routine, nothing fascinating in the slightest. So when the phone rang, it was nothing more than an old habit of picking it up and saying hello.

"_Gwen_?"

Until that voice answered.

The blonde barely recovered herself from the blow that airy sound had given her; she glanced about her, making sure she was alone in the lobby. "Skye? What are you—?"

"_This is my one phone call. Otherwise I pay for every thirty seconds, and I need more than that, Gwen."_

The girl swallowed, hard. "Well, maybe I only need five to hang up on you."

"_You're mad."_

It was a statement; somehow, that infuriated her. "Damn right I'm mad. You just…what are you trying to do? You're going to waste an apology on me, now?"

A pause. "_Yes, and no_."

"Well, I don't need one," Gwen replied—oh, her bitterness _needed_ this outlet, it felt so _good_ to let that out in some shape, some form. "Your words are very pretty, Skye. But pretty things don't last, do they? And I've realized I don't like shiny things all that much, anyway."

"…_I need a favor_."

"And I need the last two seasons of my life back. We can't always get what we want, now can we?"

"_Please_."

Gwen hesitated; Skye didn't act needy, not as Steiner, and not as his true self, either. Her finger coiled about the phone's cord uncertainly, debating on whether he was worth wasting any more of her life. "You have two seconds before I hang up. Explain."

"_Can you blame me for what I did? I loved Willow. I still do. I…I'd do anything to be the father she's supposed to have."_

"The ends don't always justify the means."

"_Loving you was not an end to that mean."_

The L-word, after so many lies and deceits, struck her dumb. "You _bastard_," she whispered. "You think you can say things like that to me, now? I'm not as stupid as I was a few days ago. Drop the act."

"_I'm not acting. All the love I gave you, I gave it because I _wanted_ to, not because I _needed_ to_."

"Well, thank you, then," she said dryly. "Thank you for _wanting_ to wreck my life. Thank you for _wanting_ to lie to me. Thanks for breaking my heart. I think I just might return the favor."

In moments, she'd have hung up the phone if a few words hadn't stopped her:

"_You're my only witness_."

Her chest heaved up and down; the words stuck like glue in her mouth. "I…I'm sorry, I'm _what_?"

"_A character witness. You're the only person in the world who can honestly say I love Willow, that I'd never hurt her, that I've done nothing but raise her the best I can_." Skye paused. "_Isn't that the truth, Gwen_?"

"I don't know. I've been hearing lots of lies lately."

"_We didn't use to fight like this_."

"I didn't think you were a kidnapping son of a bitch, then, either."

"_Gwen…if you don't do this, I'm…"_ His voice cracked on the other end, and Gwen's anger cooled for a moment of shock and surprise. "_I'll certainly remain in jail. You're, well, you could quite well say you hold my fate in your hands_."

_And when I gave you my heart unto yours, didn't you drop it? _The girl shook her head, a thousand thoughts fighting to reach her tongue—all sorts of anger, self-pity, bitterness, and fear that she was struggling to hold back. "I…I don't know if I can do that."

"_Could you?" _He hesitated. _"For me?_"

"For Skye the Phantom Thief? No." Then, with the regret already swimming through her veins, Gwen added, "But for Steiner…maybe." The stunned silence on the other end was enough to make Gwen want to take back her statement, to force this lying jerk to stay in four walls for the rest of his days.

"_Thank you_."

"But there's one thing I won't do, Skye." Gwen held her chin high, speaking firmly. "I won't lie."

"…_I still love you, you know_."

The water began to fill her eyes. "Your two seconds are officially up." The phone slammed down, hard, and Gwen wiped at her face, wondering why the hell, after all she knew, she still wanted to say, "_I love you, too_."

* * *

Here was Nami Stone's to-do list before Skye's trial: interview any and all prospective witnesses, organize all files for the case, and somehow not trip over the two lawyers in the process.

"That's, uh, a lot of work," Gustafa commented, glancing at the two witness lists. " 'Gwen' sounds familiar."

"It should. She's the girl who gave you that complimentary breakfast," the redhead muttered. "Though God knows why she did."

"Because being pleasant reaps its own rewards," Gustafa quipped.

Nami rolled her eyes and fiddled with her pen, the point _tap-tap-tapping_ on the desk's surface. Gwen wasn't exactly a girl she looked forward to grilling; first of all, she seemed to have been innocent of the whole affair, and secondly, choosing her as a character witness was the same thing as throwing a wildcard into the courtroom.

After all, if someone broke _Nami's_ trust so horribly, the detective knew she'd kick them to the curb.

"Hm, we've got Doctor Trent here," Gustafa continued reading, eyebrows raised. "And, wow, Claire's on the stand. Well, that's expected, but…I'd hate to be the defense attorney pinning _her_ down." He grinned. "But you did a pretty good job, so maybe this Maria girl has a chance."

"Gina's on there, too." The detective leaned back in her chair and sighed. "She's going to have to do double-duty, you know? Talk about her sessions with both sides."

"And you're on here, too." Gustafa studied her, the way worry lines creased her brow and her lips puckered into an unsure sigh. She caught his gaze and shifted positions, but all the same color rose to her cheeks and she shrugged.

"It's no big deal. I've done this before."

"You'll knock them dead, you know you will."

Nami hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I'm sure I'll do fine. I just wish—" A low chuckle. "I'm not sure whose side I'm supposed to be on. It's maddening, not knowing how I want this case to go. Normally I could say it in black-and-white, but…"

"Sometimes it's not about sides. Sometimes it's just, you know, doing your job." Gustafa wrapped his arm around her and flashed her a smile. "Just be honest, okay? You're good at that, when you let yourself be."

She smiled faintly. "Is that so?" He leaned in to kiss her pale lips, and Nami kissed back, finishing, _Thanks to you._

* * *

Gwen did not like Jack O'Neil. She didn't like how he always wiped his hands as if he found her Inn to be dirty; she didn't like how he ordered his food in special ways; and she especially didn't like how he presumed to understand everything about her.

"I'm here to prosecute the kidnapping thief—I'm sure you heard about him?"

"Certainly."

"My poor cousin is beside herself over losing her child, and well, I'm just doing my good duty to society."

"I've no doubt."

"Don't you worry your pretty head about it, though, 'cause I'll make sure he gets behind bars. I'm good at what I do."

Gwen paused, the opportunity to dump the boiling soup in her hands on his head _oh_-so-tempting. _He's had a few drinks, Gwen, _she reminded herself. _This is just his job, Gwen._

But Lord, if his ego got any bigger, she'd have to chuck it out the window.

Glancing about her, Gwen had started to see a definite label on each of her uncle's tenants: prosecution, defense, or undecided. Practically the whole future courtroom had been eating her homemade pancakes and eggs this morning. Jack O'Neil had come in last, like some movie star who, in a state of amnesia, had wandered to the farthest corner of the earth and decided to rule there. In a past life, Gwen could see herself blushing at his looks and charm, but in _this_ life? She snorted.

Hell with it, she could dump a little bit of soup, right?

With a wicked little smile and a cute little, "Oops," Gwen watched him scream and fume at the stain on his pants, shouting words that meant nothing to her—like "Armani" and "Gucci." Some of the other customers had looked up, and one of them had begun to shake her head and moan. _Claire_, Gwen noticed belatedly.

"Jack, please don't tell me this is how you're going to behave in court."

He straightened up. "It isn't."

"Do you even know what you're doing?" The farmer walked over and pulled him by the arm, whispering choice words into his ear before pushing him away, fuming. "I don't care if you're the same klutzy cousin I remember—just do your job. Don't make me look any stupider than I already look."

"Believe me," Jack muttered, "you do a fine enough job of it on your own."

"_What_ did you say?"

"How about some free wine on the house?" Gwen interrupted weakly. They shot her twin glares, and Claire rolled her eyes, muttering something like, "_Crap, we're in public." _Her arm hitched on his sleeve, and the farmer pulled him upstairs, leaving Trent alone at his table with baby Willow on his lap. The doctor seemed to be giving her a strange look, and Gwen fidgeted, unsure of how to feel about this man.

Claire, well, she couldn't help but feel a little jealous of her. Jack she obviously despised. But Doctor Trent? She drew in her breath and let it out. Well, she hadn't a damn clue how to view him.

"Miss?"

Oh, God, he was approaching her. Gwen flashed her best customer-friendly smile, and her heart began to speed up as she noticed he was carrying Willow with him. "Any food in mind for your lunch this afternoon?" she chirped.

"Detective Stone told me how you took care of Willow." Trent smiled awkwardly—_gorgeous smile, he looks like a model_—as he held the baby forward. "I don't know what I can say to thank you. She's…perfect."

Her cheeks heated up at that. Willow grinned in that happy way only a child can, and with her arms outstretched, waited for Gwen to hug her close. "Ma!" The cook leaned in slowly, somehow still unable to believe what she was hearing, and embraced the tiny girl—oh, not long enough, not long _enough_.

"She's absolutely beautiful," Gwen said softly. "You should be so proud. I…I'd give anything to raise a child like that." A sad smile. "I always knew she'd never be mine."

"Something we have in common." Trent sighed, and taking Willow back into his arms, he glanced at Gwen once more. "You know," the doctor spoke, "I don't blame you for speaking up for him in court. I know what it's like, to love someone who's made mistakes."

The blonde stumbled for words; had she been so transparent? "Maybe we should form a support group," she joked faintly.

A smile. "Perhaps." He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out three shiny gold coins, rubbing them between his fingers before depositing them one by one into the jar on her counter.

"I'm not a babysitter," Gwen told him, voice quiet and smooth. "I loved taking care of her—that was pay enough."

"I know. It's just a tip, that's all."

Or a thank you without words.

* * *

"Why are you so afraid?"

His words flew past her into nothing; she commented, "Isn't it sad, how it's raining in Winter? It's not cold enough to be snow, and not warm enough to water any grass at all. It's just…slush."

Claire wrapped her arms around herself and forced a smile, retreating deeper into her blankets. "Why don't you come to bed, honey?" Trent asked her, the loneliness in her eyes as much a blow to him as any slap. "The trial's coming up; of course you're worried. But there's no need to be afraid."

"You certainly don't seem to be," she whispered. Her hand reached for Willow's cradle instead, rocking it gently as a butterfly's wings. She watched it sway, back and forth, like a pendulum, mesmerized. "Trent?"

"Yes?"

"Do you hate me?"

The rain pelted outside. "No." Trent thought, then took off his coat and wrapped it about his wife's shoulders. "Sometimes," he whispered into her ear, "I'm not sure if I understand you, or if I like you, but I don't hate you."

She nodded, as if his answer were agreeable or right. Biting her lip, Claire turned to him once more, hesitant. "Do you think I'm wrong?"

"About?"

"Any of it. This case, Skye, Willow, any..._anything_." Claire wiped her nose. "Do you hate her?"

The question shocked him; "Willow? God, no. I love her."

"But…but she's not yours. She's that _thing's_." Her body began to quiver, and Trent embraced her all the tighter, fighting to quell her fears. "I wanted her to be yours. I did, I really did."

"I know," he murmured.

"I wanted to marry you, the whole time, really," Claire sobbed into his shoulder, speaking faster and faster, as if she couldn't keep it in any longer. "I wanted you to raise my children, not him. I wanted to share my life and home with you, not him. He just…we…I don't know why I did it." Shame engulfed her, and the countless memories assaulted her: this man waiting for a date when she'd kissed a thief's lips moments before kissing his, the romantic walks on the beach compared to the chase through the woods fueled by adrenaline and strange desire. He'd seemed so…_safe_, and Skye had been so treacherous—as if constantly putting himself in danger reminded him he was alive.

Maybe she'd never been. Maybe she'd just always hoped to be.

"You shouldn't love me. I make too many mistakes, I hurt too many people, and maybe…when those people get on the stand and say I can't be Willow's mother…maybe they'll be right, too." God, she needed to stop crying—she needed to get hold of herself. "I know I shouldn't be your wife. I'm not good enough, I know."

"That's not your decision." Trent brushed the tears from her eyes, seeing past the red eyes, the pale skin, and blotchy cheeks to see the brave and vulnerable woman he'd loved. "And as long as it's mine, I won't let you say those things about my wife. Because I love her, okay?"

She laughed, his voice gentle and his hands pressed tightly on the small of her back. "Okay." She kissed him, hesitantly, then pushed herself closer to him, holding her lips there longer than she had in ages. "Okay." Together, lying in this bed so often marred by mistakes, maybe they could make the night long enough to forget tomorrow.


	22. Chapter 22: Devil's Advocate

**Note: **It's official:I will NEVER EVER be a lawyer. I'm not good at thinking on my feet, and I'm _so_ in over my head here, haha. Writing this took a lot of edits and research, but oh my gosh, guys, it was _**so**_ _**fun**_. I never thought I could write something like this in my wildest dreams, and poof, what do you know? Thanks for the incredible and staggering support—I hope I don't let you down or fudge too much!

PS: The best part of this chapter? Many of the weaknesses Ms. Monett points out were either accidental on my part (ex. the police mistakes) or improvisations to my original idea (ex. Claire's past) as I wrote the story. Isn't it cool that the off-the-cuff stuff fits like that?

_**Chapter Twenty-two: **__Devil's Advocate_

If she expected anything, immediately Claire felt it all fall short of the strange, surreal sensation of being in a courtroom. Due to the town's general invisibility to the rest of the world, O'Neil had told her straight-out that they'd escaped the attack of reporters and journalists that a high-profile case would normally attract. "Then again, this case is far from the usual," he'd muttered under his breath, and Claire wished that hadn't put a sinking stone in her soul.

So much of courtroom preparation was an act: Claire's clothes were soccer mom chic, when usually she'd either sport her overalls or the professional attire from her days as an architect. Why, every question the prosecution had prepared they'd run by her, telling her what answers were appropriate and which were not, making her wonder if Skye's lawyer did the exact same thing with him. Shyly she glanced to see him besides that mousy attorney of his, and a freshly shaved, clean-cut image greeted her, his melancholy somehow adding to his charm. Heat flushed up the side of his neck as he caught her stare, and she turned about quickly, not daring to admit where her eyes had wandered.

"All rise!"

The judge who'd held Claire at bay from Skye's door entered the courtroom with the air of an empress, her head held high and her fiery eyes dancing as she took her position of power. The Honorable Judge "WP" opened her mouth and, smirking, said, "Ladies. Gentlemen. I see this case has brought more villagers than usual to my courtroom. Let me enlighten you on the etiquette I expect of you: no inappropriate behavior, no outbursts, and no shenanigans. If any of you fail to follow those guidelines, I'll kick you outside. Any electronic devices that go off during testimony are subject to removal. Are we clear?" A wolfish smile. "Then let the prosecution make their opening statement."

* * *

Jack O'Neil may have been a first class SOB, but Maria had to admit, the man knew how to work a crowd. It was hard to hate this man and his cocky grin, unless you'd personally seen him outside the courtroom. Unfortunately for her client, this jury had not.

"On the fifth day of Fall, a young mother gives her four-month-old daughter a bubble bath, reads her a fairy tale, and kisses her good-night on her tiny blonde head. She is tired from working all day in the fields outside her house, relieved at her husband's return from work, and with his arms around her, she sleeps expecting to see her child tomorrow morning, safe and sound. She expects to relive this day again, and again, until the child in that cradle is old enough to give herself a bubble bath, choose her own stories, and crawl into her own bed."

He approached the jury, and Maria—despite herself—tried to mentally note how his eyes found the dexterity to gaze at all of its members at once with penetrating stares, daring them to ignore his following words. "Imagine you are this mother waking up on the morning of Fall Six. The cradle holds no child. Your door is open. And there is a note tacked on that door in your ex-boyfriend's handwriting: _Fair maiden, I shall steal your heart this very night_. You don't know if you'll ever see your child again. You don't know if she's even alive. All you know is that she's not in your arms anymore, and that you'd give anything to let her be."

Skye's hands became fists in his lap, and Maria flinched at the handcuffs' metallic sound.

"The defense will try and tell you this is a trial about feelings. It isn't. This is about one man"—Jack's finger jutted towards the thief, and all the jurors' eyes followed it—"who decided his want for revenge outweighed the safety and well-being of an innocent baby girl. The defense will tell you that this child is the product of a past union between my client, Ms. Claire, and the defense's client, Skye the Phantom Thief. What I am going to tell you is that over half, over three fourths, over four-_fifths_ of kidnapping cases are family abductions, and that being a parent by blood doesn't make a kidnapper any less of a criminal than he is. For two full seasons, Skye the Phantom Thief has lied his way into an innocent village and into the heart of a baby that does not, according to the law, belong to him. We have a court system, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and _that_ is how justice is served in this country, not through promoting one's own brand of justice at whim. You and I are not above the law. After today's trial," Jack O'Neil finished, "you'll agree that neither is Skye the Phantom Thief."

* * *

The best part about being a defense attorney was being able to speak last. Maria, calm and cool as you please, smoothed out her skirt and stood, gazing at the court with refined and dignified poise.

"Mr. O'Neil has told you about the facts," she stated. "He has told you that my client is accused of kidnapping Willow: his and Ms. Claire's child from wedlock. He has told you that for two seasons, this child resided in his keeping, away from her mother and her old home. Yet then again, Mr. O'Neil has not told you that the mother he has kept her from those two months is a past victim of child abuse. He has not told you that she kept the birth of this baby girl, Skye's first and only child, a secret from the very man who fathered her and even from the doctor she married. The prosecution accuses my client of being a liar. After today's testimony, you'll see Ms. Claire could be accused of that very same thing."

She smiled sweetly at the jury, giving Skye a look sincere and angelic enough to shock any member of the courtroom into listening. "Mr. O'Neil asked you to imagine being in Ms. Claire's position. So I ask you to imagine, if you will, being in _love_. Imagine falling for someone so deep that you could never picture leaving their side; imagine expecting trust and receiving a slap in return. You are rejected, and you don't know why. Your lover marries a man you never knew she'd loved before you, and suddenly you are alone, dumbfounded, and confused. You spend months away from the origin of your misery, when you learn something no one bothered to tell you—this very woman who left you has given birth to a baby girl. A girl born nine months since you were last making love under the moon; a girl that no court in the world will share with you, because you are a thief and a man, and both are damning in this courtroom."

Maria let that sink in for a moment. "Mr. O'Neil will repeat the importance of honesty in this case. I will agree with him on that. When you hear of lies Skye the Phantom Thief has spoken, be sure your ears are as carefully tuned to those of the woman who kept secrets regarding abuse, regarding an affair, and regarding the conception of a beautiful baby girl. Perhaps my client should not have lied to this child about her heritage. But ladies and gentlemen, wasn't Ms. Claire already lying about the very same thing?"

The farmer bit her lip at the accusals, and Maria closed her eyes, taking in a deliberate breath for time.

"I dare you to _feel_, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I ask you not to ask if Skye the Phantom Thief is guilty of kidnapping this baby girl; ask yourselves instead if Skye the _Father_ is guilty of loving his daughter too much to let her be cheated like he had, when his own father walked out on his life and when the woman sitting in the prosecution's chair left him as well." Maria started towards her seat, then turned towards the jury. "Can you blame him, at least, for wanting the chance to love his own child?"

* * *

"Can you state your name and occupation for the record?"

Claire leaned towards the microphone and blushed. "Claire. I'm, um, a farmer." She paused, then smiled. "And a mother. I like to think that comes first."

Trent returned her smile warmly from behind Jack O'Neil's ridiculously big head. "Thank you, Ms. Claire," the prosecutor responded. "Would you please tell the jury your current residence?"

"I live in Forget-Me-Not Valley."

"Have you always lived there?"

"Not exactly," Claire murmured; why did she suddenly feel so shy, sitting at the witness stand? "I lived there with my family when I was young, but we moved to the city when I was six. I moved back there almost three years ago."

"How would you describe Forget-Me-Not Valley, Ms. Claire?"

"Safe. Open. Secure."

"A good place to raise a child?"

"A wonderful place," Claire murmured.

"Are you married, Ms. Claire?"

"To Dr. Trent, for about a year and a half now."

"Do you have children?"

"One. Willow."

"How has Willow been these past few months?"

"I wouldn't know. I've only just seen her this week."

"Why is that?"

"He took her from me," she whispered, pointing to Skye and his beautiful eyes. "For the past two seasons, he's had her, and I haven't known a thing."

"Let the record show that the witness had indicated the defendant." Jack O'Neil grinned encouragingly, waiting for the climax to draw the sleepy jury in and hook them tight. "How do you know the defendant, Ms. Claire?"

"He…he and I were romantically involved."

"Sexually?"

"Yes," Claire admitted. "I'm not proud of it, but yes."

"Why would he take your baby Willow?"

"I ended the affair," Claire answered simply. "I didn't like lying to two sides, and I knew what I wanted was trustworthiness, reliability, constancy—things I knew Trent had and that Skye didn't."

"Objection!" Maria's voice called. "Hearsay. The witness is not a psychological analyst."

"Sustained. Ms. Claire, please be more specific," the judge instructed.

The farmer's cheeks blushed red. "Skye was a wandering thief. Trent was a village doctor. I chose the man whose life best reflected mine. Skye didn't like that, and I didn't tell him about me being pregnant, because I didn't want Willow to be part of his sporadic life. I didn't even tell my husband, because I didn't want him to judge her or me. I wanted to raise Willow _normally_, like any girl should be. But apparently, Skye didn't feel the same way, because he kidnapped her from me." A pause. "He…he wrote a note, even, to spite me for it."

"How did you know it was written by Skye?"

Claire swallowed. "He left me the exact same letter the day I proposed to Trent. Skye had been furious, and he'd threatened to steal my blue feather so that I couldn't marry him." She tried to smile. "Obviously, that didn't work the way he'd planned."

O'Neil basked in the alarm written on the jury's faces: _If a man gets that angry once, he can do it again. _"What did you do when you discovered Willow was missing?"

"I panicked," Claire answered. "I tore the whole village apart in my search; I denied it, I cried, I screamed, I prayed. The police wouldn't declare her missing until twenty-four hours had passed, but now I know that's a common misconception, one that cost us dearly. We missed her, and I couldn't forgive myself for that."

"And now that you've learned she is safe and have held her in your arms once again?"

Claire held her head high and looked Skye square in the eyes. "I'll never let her go."

* * *

"Ms. Claire, you said something interesting in your testimony." Maria paced in front of the witness stand, and commented, "You said every girl deserves to grow up "normally." Would you please define that for the jury?"

"I know what you're getting at, Ms. Monett," Claire spoke softly.

"Answer the question, please."

"I know I grew up in a home that I suppose couldn't be called normal," the farmer retorted. "I experienced firsthand what it's like to watch your mother die, slowly and surely, while your father works himself into a frenzy to forget how powerless he is. I know what it's like to fight to reach impossible expectations, and to be physically and verbally abused when you fall short every time. So _yes_, I want my daughter to grow up normally, Ms. Monett, because I wish I could have." Claire clenched her teeth, fighting to suppress her temper and her tears because Jack had told her both could kill her credibility. "Two loving parents. A stable home. A friendly village full of friends and kind people. That's how I define normal, if you must know."

"Life has not been easy for you," Maria agreed, lost in thought. She was walking on thin ice; _Claire_ was the victim here, and if Maria bullied her, that'd turn the whole jury against her client. "Would you say you loved your father?"

Dumbfounded, Claire stared at her. "O-of course."

"Even though he hurt you?"

"Well, yes."

"Even though he only yelled at you?"

"He didn't _only_ yell at me," the farmer clarified. "We had good times, like any father and daughter do. I still loved him. I still _do_ love him."

Ms. Monett pursed her lips. "So you're saying, even though you were abused, you believe you had a kind and loving father?"

"My father was a good man. He just…made mistakes sometimes."

"Like Skye the Phantom Thief has?"

A startled gasp choked out of Claire's throat at the noose Maria had just placed around her words. She blinked her stunned blue eyes, and stammered out, "You don't understand. Skye broke the law. He tried to steal a little girl's childhood from her. From _me_."

"So did your father," Maria challenged. "But you didn't take him to a courtroom, did you?"

"_Objection_!"

"It's easy for you to say, Ms. Monett," Claire bit back, O'Neil still standing with his face red as blood. "But turning in my father would protect me, and in my case, _I_ had a voice in how I wanted to be raised. Yet if you look at my baby daughter, you'll see she has no voice of her own at all."

O'Neil, surprised and certainly pleased at his client's response, sat right back down.

"So if someday, your daughter wants to meet Skye the Phantom Thief?"

"That'll be her decision."

Maria bit her lip; this would need another direction. "And you are the better role model, in your eyes, than my client?"

"Yes."

"Because he steals?"

"Yes."

"And because he lies?"

Claire treaded carefully here, an unseen maze of defense versus prosecution lit before both their eyes. "Everyone lies. That's not a fair assessment of a parent."

"Then what is, Ms. Claire?"

"Being a liar," the blonde spoke slowly, "who knows when it's time to finally tell the truth. And when to apologize."

"When the police came at your door, Ms. Claire, would it be fair to say that was a good time to tell the police of your past affair with Skye?"

She closed her eyes, shuddering. "Yes."

"Yet you didn't. When you married Dr. Trent, would it be fair to say you should have told him you carried Skye the Phantom Thief's child in your womb?"

"You don't understand, I wasn't going to—" _Oh shit_. Claire caught herself in time, but Maria had picked up on her change in tune, and the lawyer hunted after it hungrily.

"You weren't going to do what? Tell him?"

"W-well—"

"So you're saying, basically, that you want Willow to grow up with a role model who lies when it protects herself, not when it's in the best interest of her husband and child?"

"I never said that. I only said," she protested futilely, "that I wasn't…going to _have_ to." Each syllable became a broken road; every word slipped from her tongue with the softest intonations.

"And what does that mean, Ms. Claire?"

_That I almost aborted the most beautiful thing in my life, long before I took her for granted. That I put my marriage on the line when I chose to keep her, so that I could always see her smile._

"It means," Claire announced, "that sometimes, you do what it takes to protect your baby girl. Even if it hurts you in the long run."

"Funny," Maria commented. "Isn't that exactly what Skye the Phantom Thief did?"

* * *

It killed Gwen, not knowing what on Earth was going on in that room. Sequestered with the other witnesses, she'd tried to distract herself by listing recipes in her head: curry, vegetable stew, strawberry parfait, sugar cookies. Her heartbeat went on overdrive, kicking in with terror that only comes from the unknown.

_What if I mess up?_

Chicken pot pie, manicotti, fried fish. Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and played with the obnoxious film of her long skirt and the oppressive collar of her blouse; Ms. Monett had told her to look professional, believable. _But that's not me in the mirror. That's only what the jury wants to see._

Across from her, the new nurse—Gina Aires, wasn't it?—knitted a second scarf, the first having been finished for hours now, and beside her far off in the corner, Detective Stone crossed and uncrossed her legs, sighing. All of them jumped, startled, as the doors opened to reveal the bailiff, Bob.

"Detective Stone?"

A wave of relief washed over Gwen's frantic expression, while the bomb she'd have to detonate kept ticking all the while.

* * *

"Would you state your name and occupation for the jury?"

"Naminè Stone. Private investigator."

The redhead prided herself on remaining cool and collected on the stand. She had no alliance to either side anymore; despite her initial ties to the prosecution, Nami honestly didn't care how her words were interpreted. Both sides had good points.

And _both_ sides, as far as she was concerned, were officially insane.

"How did you happen to work on this case?"

"Forget-Me-Not isn't known for its prestigious legal system," she answered. "The authorities in Mineral Town were called, and when they, too, found themselves in over their head, I was hired. Dr. Trent and Ms. Claire wanted to report their daughter being kidnapped; I had to come in and see if they had the means to get an affidavit written in order to obtain an arrest warrant for Skye the Phantom Thief."

"And did you have those means?" O'Neil asked.

"Not at first. The boot print found was inconclusive, with no previous prints of Skye's to match with it, and the note he'd left was unsigned. To top things off, he had no motive." The detective shrugged. "I had to work my way to getting the evidence I needed, shaky as it was."

"Yet you did gain the necessary information?"

"Yes," Nami conceded. "But only once I pressured Ms. Claire into confessing her past with the defendant. If she hadn't told me that, and if I didn't have his past history of petty theft to tie with it, I'd have had nothing short of hearsay to report."

"How did Willow's parents react after their daughter's disappearance?"

"As any parent would have. Distraught. Confused Angry. I've seen many victims of crimes, Mr. O'Neil, and these two fit the bill nicely."

"What did you do to find Willow?"

"Of course people were actively looking for her; I wasn't in charge of that aspect of the search as much," Nami explained. "My work was more technical, finding out the motives, the background, the nuts and bolts of the case. Needless to say, with Skye's lifestyle, the case got cold more often than hot."

"In what state did you find the defendant upon discovering his whereabouts?"

"Residing as a waiter at an Inn in a remote town, with an alias and baby Willow in his care." The detective let her gaze slant towards Skye at his seat, and she added, "We have numerous witnesses that can testify to his staying in Flowerbud with the girl for these past two seasons."

"What does kidnapping mean, Detective Stone?"

"Taking anyone, without their consent, by force."

"Would taking a child without proper custody, without alerting the parents who _had_ custody of that child, and deciding to raise her under a new identity chosen by the abductor, correspond with that definition?"

"When put like that," Nami Stone answered, "yes."

* * *

"Before you arrived at Forget-Me-Not, you received a report from the local police force."

"Yes."

Maria Monett held the paper in her hands, tapping a corner of it with her nail. "Can you read me this highlighted section here?"

"_After twenty-four hours, the child had been officially declared missing." _Nami groaned. "That's incorrect."

"How so?"

"A child can be announced missing before twenty-four hours have passed, if there's probable cause."

"In this case, would you say there was?"

She hesitated. "The note left behind leads me to think so."

"So the police before you made a mistake?"

"The man in charge was an amateur," Nami explained.

"But you're not?"

"I have been working at my job for seven years now."

"So you wouldn't make a mistake of that proportion, would you?"

Something about Ms. Monett's tone made Nami go still inside. "I'd say not."

"Can you tell the jury what occurred during Thanksgiving this Winter in regards to your career?"

Nami could feel a thousand eyes boring into her back. "I was fired," she replied softly.

"Had you performed any misconduct?"

"No, nothing of the sort. The force found me dispensable, with the case cold and the evidence old." She hesitated. "Private investigators are only kept around as long as they're useful. I had nothing new to offer at the time, so they made an economic decision to no longer hire me."

"Were you still working on Skye the Phantom Thief's case when you invoked his arrest warrant?"

Oh, Ms. Monett was a _clever_ little devil, wasn't she? Nami averted her eyes. "No, I can't say that I was."

"How did you handle the arrest, Detective Stone?"

"I brought out my gun and told the girl at the Inn to call the police."

"You pulled out your _gun_." The attorney shook her head, feigning shock. "Had Skye done anything to resist your arrest?"

"No."

"Had he acted violent in any way?"

"No."

"Had you even seen Willow's face when you pulled out your gun?"

"I…hadn't," Nami admitted. Shame blossomed on her cheeks, and Nami kept her mouth in a perpetual line, gnashing her teeth to keep from shouting.

"Let me get this straight. Upon seeing a suspect—one whom may very well have been an innocent man—you pulled out your gun, you pointed it at his heart, arrested him, and _then_ you asked for the police to intervene, am I correct?"

"Yes," Nami whispered.

"Without proper authority?"

"That would be correct, I suppose."

"I have a statement I'd also like to read to you, Detective Stone—you are reported as having said, upon seeing Skye, '_There's plenty of ways to wound a man without killing him. You should know; taking a child is one of them._' Hm." Maria raised her eyebrows. "That sounds awfully like declaring someone guilty before being proved so, doesn't it?"

"I understand your point, Ms. Monett. I'm sure the jury does as well," the witness retorted tightly.

"Only one more question, Detective Stone." The redhead rolled her eyes, but Maria asked anyway, "Is it fair to say that before the evidence, before the trial, our _impartial_ justice system treated Skye like a criminal from the start?"

"You forget, Ms. Monett," Nami replied. "Even before Willow? He _was_ one."

* * *

Skye couldn't keep his eyes off the jury. Maybe it was because they couldn't take their eyes off him: this kidnapper, this thief, this stealer of hearts. Maria had told him they'd been called from a nearby village on the sea, impartial and unrelated to any of the issues at hand. One member, a stoic and gray-haired man with muscles Skye would kill for, kept throwing him dirty looks, while the dark-haired maiden by his side adjusted her glasses and occasionally dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

_What they must think of me. They must consider me a monster._

It couldn't happen, in this flawed and imperfect world, but Skye wanted to walk over and talk to lovely blonde juror #3 and tell her how he'd rock Willow to sleep on cold winter nights. He wanted to sit down beside the nun and the red-haired ranch fellow and explain how frightened he was to learn he'd never get to raise his child. He wanted to show the curly-haired drifter how his heart had been mended new by Gwen and his baby girl. He wanted to tell them how he'd go back and do it all over again, because he loved Willow, and the woman he'd met because of her, enough to ruin his next twelve lifetimes.

He wanted them to _listen_. Not to judge by his face.

"It could be going worse, but we're holding our heads up, I think." Maria wrung her hands in her lap, using a hand-lotion that claimed to "relax" any and all tense muscles. After all the intense verbal sparring _his_ lawyer had done, Skye hoped that label wasn't kidding. "The case could go either way, really, so we have to just prove that our way is better." She sighed. "Unfortunately, this is a more "guilt the jury" scenario than a "plant doubt in the act" one. There's too much proof that you kidnapped her."

"Well." Skye shrugged. "Technically, I did."

"Future reference: never tell a defense attorney whether you're guilty or not. We represent you anyway." Still, Maria smiled. "You want to know something?"

"What?"

"I don't think you're the liar they make you out to be."

More than a little taken-aback, Skye found himself smiling as well. "Miss Monett!" he exclaimed. "Are you _flirting_ with me?"

"Give me a little credit, Skye," she laughed. "I'm far too professional to do such a thing. But not too professional to tell you that I think you never meant any harm to come to this girl, nor any to the mother you took her from." A pause. "I think…you really do love her."

"I appreciate that. It means a lot, to me."

"Believe me, any time a defense attorney admits to believing your story, the Apocalypse is on its way." Maria chuckled. "But you really ought to get yourself some water, you look…" She hesitated. "_Stressed_."

"But I haven't done anything yet."

Maria chewed her lip. "Listening to this could stress anyone, Skye. Sitting in this chair alone adds years to your age."

"Lucky I'm young." Skye fingered the edge of the silky tie wrapped tight round his neck. "Maria, I think I…"

Alarm flickered in the lawyer's eyes. "What?"

"…I want to testify."

The reply was immediate: "Absolutely not."

"I want them to know what really happened," Skye insisted, his voice rising. "I want them to hear from the villain himself about the crime. If they put me in prison, I want them to remember every word I say—I want them to remember that every time they pass a father on the street, or the jail on the side of the road, or the baby sleeping in her carriage. If I don't do this," he pleaded, "I'll never sleep easy behind prison walls."

"And that's where you'll wind up if O'Neil gets his hands on you during the cross-examination." Maria sighed. "Skye, prison walls aren't meant for sleeping. They're meant for killing, slowly and painfully."

"That's—!"

"I don't mean physically, Skye. I mean your spirit. Your soul. _That's_ what breaks."

He stared at the ground for a moment, then a grin broke out across his face, that roguish charm once again lighting his eyes with grief. "Well. Then I already have nothing to lose."


	23. Chapter 23: Damsels

**Note: **I'm so sorry about last week! My math grade was in the toilet and I had to study, so the Internet and the chapter both suffered for it. Hopefully you're not all boycotting me now for ditching. Anyway, this chapter is majorly Gwen-based, and I didn't have much room for anything else, so next chapter will encompass more characters. Promise. Please read!

_**Chapter Twenty-three: **__Damsels_

Once upon a time, a lovely princess waited alone in a tower for her hero. She'd waited a long, long time, and had first seen her two parents devoured by her dragon's flames. Yet she never gave up hope, dreaming and dreaming of her knight. Then one day, a strong, kind young man found the door to her prison—yet this knight had another dragon to slay, another princess to rescue. Spurned, she turned back to her dreams, but soon lost them as well. She'd given up, this damsel, by the time that promised hero knocked on her door. She'd lost hope, until she saw his shining sword drive away that dragon of loneliness from her gates.

_This_ is where the story should end. _This_ is where the happily ever after belongs.

Who knew, Gwen thought to herself, that the princess had to slay her prince's dragons in the end? And who'd have thought Prince Charming would have been a dragon in disguise from the beginning?

"Could you state your name and occupation for the jury?"

The girl's eyes scoured the courtroom, imagining fire surrounding her on all sides. "Gwen. I'm a waitress, a cook, and an Inn manager." She fidgeted. "Mostly a cook."

Maria fought to keep from seeing Jack O'Neil's face; this was her first witness, and it terrified her that she could mess up the beginning to the prosecution's advantage. Especially with her star witness. "Could you tell the jury your relation to the defendant?"

_I can do this. I just can't look at him, that's all, because if I do it'll be all over. _"We…worked together."

"Is that the extent of it, Miss Gwen?"

"No." Then, in a moment of instinct, she swerved to face the beautiful demon who haunted her dreams, and oh, how it _hurt_: handcuffs on those wrists that had wrapped about her waist; no light shining in those lovers' eyes; an apology waiting on his liar's lips. How had he transformed so quickly from the smiling, romantic fool she'd known? The fool she'd _loved_. "N-no."

Quickly she averted her stare to something more foreign, less intimidating. And then, as Gwen scoured the crowds, that other face caught hers. The figure wore a haunted look, cloaked in something Gwen could only call desperation, and her mouth formed silent words Gwen could hear all too well: "_I lost my baby because of him. You'd defend the man who stole my child? The monster who ruined my life?_"

"You don't want to be here, do you?" Maria asked, gentler now.

Gwen covered her eyes. "No. I don't." What had she planned to say? Everything swam in her mind now: the rehearsed replies, the insistence on remaining on-topic, and then the memories, the kisses, the laughter, the lies lies _lies—_!

"Ms. Monett." The judge leaned over, a frown on her lips. "Your client isn't ready to take the stand, I gather?"

"Your Honor—"

"Before you speak, Counselor, it might help if you actually gave the girl in that seat a second glance. _Look_ at her."

Gwen buried her head on the stand in shame, crying and crying in a way she'd never thought a body could. Everything slammed her at once: the anguish, the heartache, the loneliness, the inability to decide which side was truly right, and the embarrassment of letting all this free in a room of strangers and fools. "I'm sorry," she choked. "I'm…I'm sorry!"

Every member of the jury's heart was breaking, and Gwen hadn't even spoken her piece yet. Maria ached for the girl, too—but in this trial, those tears were dangerous. Blame them on Skye, and not a single juror would forgive his crime. Blame them on the _court_, however…

"Ms. Monett. Compose your witness. Now."

"That," Maria replied, "I will do."

* * *

Her nose was running, and all that make-up that she'd painstakingly applied to her face had washed off with tears. "I'm sorry," Gwen repeated again, off-key. "I can't do it."

"Is it too painful?" Maria asked, the very picture of sympathy. "Do you still hate him for what he did?"

"I don't know. I can't decide, I just—I don't know!" Gwen shouted, covering her eyes. "I don't know what I want to say on the stand, what's right, what's true, what's…I just don't want to _lie_."

"No one's asking you to."

"Are you so sure about that?" Gwen whispered. Her whole body trembled, but at least she seemed to be relaxing more; her breathing had become regular once again. "You have to understand. I'm standing in front of a woman who's been _wronged_, Ms. Monett. I'm standing in front of a mother whose child was kidnapped from her, and at the same time, I'm standing in front of a man I'd have jumped hurdles for—a man who, despite everything I want to believe, is a liar and a cheat. What am I supposed to say in front of them both? I can't just stand on the fence, Ms. Monett, and I can't pick a side, either. I don't think I can do this."

"Then don't." The voice was male, familiar, soft. His pale face turned from Maria's shocked expression to Gwen's weepy eyes, and Skye murmured, "I don't see why you're apologizing, Gwen. _I_ should be, not you."

"Shut up. I don't want to talk to you." Gwen rubbed at her eyes and fixed her eyes on Maria, ignoring him pointedly. "Please, Ms. Monett, I don't know what I should—"

"Don't get on the stand. Step down. It's fine if you do."

Maria whirled on her client, all those heresies from his mouth spoken calmly, sanely, and damnably out loud. "You can't be serious," she hissed to him.

"I can't step down even if I want to," Gwen snapped back. "I'm stuck here, you know why? Because of that silver tongue of yours, Skye, and that stupid heart of mine you broke. It's official: I can't get out of testifying."

"You can if Maria lets you."

_And Maria will most certainly __**not**__. _Okay, so Gwen didn't want to testify. Not many people did. And maybe this was tough on her, but hell, it'd been tough on _Claire_, and she'd stood up there, hadn't she? Gwen didn't need to pick a side as far as Maria Monett was concerned; she just needed to make Skye's side look good in some small way to make up for what O'Neil had done to ruin it. Basically, without Gwen? The case would fail.

And damn Skye, but he had to know it.

"What are you saying?" Gwen whispered—exactly what Maria was thinking.

Skye picked at the cuff of his clothes, shrugging slightly. "I've made you experience enough pain already. I don't see why…well…I don't want to keep hurting you." He shut his eyes, and Gwen could swear something moist laid there. "Especially if it's just to save myself."

Oh, for the love of God, he _wasn't_. "Think about what you're doing," the lawyer urged, and both Skye and Gwen took her words to mean themselves.

"Gwen." The thief paused, wishing more than anything that his hands were free to hold her own. "Say something. Please."

"If I go up there or don't, I'm not doing anything to protect you," she spoke in a tone of frost. "You begged me to come here. Why do you want me to go away now?"

"Because you deserve better than this. And I'm not entirely sure…if I don't."

Maria caught a look from the judge, and she grimaced. "Would someone please decide something now?"

Gwen's eyes flitted from the floor to Skye's meek expression. Lifting a single eyebrow, the cook murmured, "I'm not testifying. You know that, don't you?"

A slow, steady nod. "I understand."

No. No no no. This was _not_ happening. Maria Monett's case was _not_ falling through the cracks over one weepy little witness. It simply wouldn't happen. And yet, Skye had already taken his seat, shaking his gorgeous head of silver hair as he imagined all the horrors to befall him in the future behind prison walls. Maria wanted to throw up; something seemed to be clogging up her throat—regret, anger, maybe both.

"Ms. Monett?" Gwen tugged on her arm, and Maria seethed at her, wondering how this selfish girl could dare to speak a word to her now, after turning her back on both Skye and the case. "I'm ready."

"For what?" was the dry response.

"To testify," Gwen answered, wiping her eyes. "Not for Skye. For me." She laughed to herself, a beautiful sound in Maria's ears. "I meant everything I said, Ms. Monett, about lying or protecting him. But I just needed to know if he was using me, or if he truly cared about me all this time. And I think…I think I know now." A tiny smile lit up her tear-streaked face. "No, I'm positive of it."

"Counselor! _Today_!"

"Absolutely, Your Honor." Ms. Monett cleared her throat. "I'd like to bring Miss Gwen back to the witness stand."

"Wonderful. Then please tell the witness to get her butt over here. We don't have all day, you know."

"My apologies. It won't happen again."

_Not on my watch._

* * *

"I am sure," Maria began, pacing as she re-worked her questions, "that the jury and the court are wondering why you were crying just now. Would you please tell them?"

Gwen cracked a small smile. "Um, that's surprisingly direct. I'm just a little…overwhelmed right now, haha." _Understatement of the century._

"Maybe if you told the jury your relationship with Skye the Phantom Thief, they could understand why."

"I'm his girlfriend." The words sent a shockwave through the jury, half of them sighing and shaking their heads, the other half leaning in closer to listen. "I'm also technically his boss, for the past two seasons, anyway."

"Girlfriend," Maria repeated. "You must not want him to go to jail, correct?"

"I honestly don't know what I want," Gwen admitted. "I guess…justice? I don't know. This trial isn't about me, anyway."

Well, Maria couldn't argue with that. "How did you meet Skye the Phantom Thief?"

"I caught him in my kitchen one night," Gwen began. "He was starving, and I had some curry out. I kinda brought out my broom and threatened him, but then we talked, and I found out he had a baby he was trying to take care of. So of course I tried to help him out."

"What did you do?"

"Offered him a job at the inn. He worked as a waiter for room and board, and we never got a single complaint from any of our customers about him." Gwen straightened up. "He was a perfect gentleman, actually."

"Is it fair to say that you can account for every day Skye has spent with Willow from his being hired in early Fall to this day?"

"Yeah, that's about right."

"How would you describe his interaction with Willow?"

Could you give giggles a description? What about hugs? That warm fuzzy glow you get from watching someone radiate with love? "He adored her," Gwen said simply. "More, even, than he loved me." She wondered if the jury cared that Skye couldn't work a diaper his first day at the Inn, but that he learned how to work it damn fast. She looked at the men in the jury and thought, would any of them sing a lullaby to a little girl? Rock her to sleep? Treat her like a princess not for a day, but for a lifetime?

"Did he ever harm her?"

"Never. Nothing violent or aggressive at all."

"Did baby Willow act unhappy at any point?"

"Let me tell you, I've met some unhappy babies," Gwen laughed. "Willow? She's not one of them." It was as if Gwen had never cried at all; suddenly the girl felt giddy, being able to recall legit memories without the cross of guilt on her shoulders. "This isn't so bad. Go ahead, Ms. Monett, ask me another."

"…This isn't a game, Miss Gwen."

"O-oh, I wasn't saying that at all!" the girl replied, blushing. "I was just…" _Answering the questions right for once. _"Sorry."

Suddenly the star witness wasn't looking so stellar in Maria's eyes. Then again, what did she expect from an eighteen-year-old girl? _Perfection_? "Did Skye ever do anything to suggest he'd be a bad parent?"

This Gwen pondered. Maria didn't like pondering; the answer was supposed to be a straight-out "No" spoken with absolute confidence. Gwen was trailing off-script so far that Maria was getting lost. "I'm not sure," Gwen spoke finally. "I haven't had a parent for so long that I can't really say what makes one _bad_. I don't know if there's such a thing as a bad parent, to tell you the truth. There's something good about everyone, isn't there?"

"Objection," O'Neil called. "This is a courtroom, not a Hallmark card."

"Overruled," Judge WP stated. "If you were listening, Counselor, her statement actually corresponded with your argument. Don't burn bridges."

Embarrassed, O'Neil sat down. Maria couldn't help but smile at that, even if the judge had been completely correct on that point against her case.

"Did Skye ever have second thoughts about Willow while working at your Inn?"

"No—wait. Yes." Gwen bit her lip, the information coming slowly but surely. "Um, I was in this race back in Fall, and Skye packed up with Willow to leave. I caught him by accident half-way to the town gate. He decided against it in the end."

"Any reason, Miss Gwen?"

"The one he gave me," Gwen replied, "is that he loved me." _And you can take that however you damn please._

"Miss Gwen, if Skye the Phantom Thief walked out of this courtroom with his daughter in his arms, what do you believe their fate would be?"

Here Gwen took in a steady breath. "We'd rehire him at the Inn. I'd stay by his side and help raise Willow. Everything would be…well, it wouldn't be the same, but it'd be pretty close, wouldn't it?"

"Would he steal?"

"Objection! The witness isn't a mind-reader."

"Withdrawn. Do you believe, based on your time spent with Skye, that he would steal?" Maria rephrased.

"He never stole during his two seasons with me," Gwen answered. "He didn't run, either. I don't think that would change."

"No further questions."

Skye, too soon, let himself breathe.

* * *

Jack O'Neil remembered Gwen from the Inn. He remembered the soup of the day even better, probably because his other Armani suit was still soaked with it. "Gwen." He smiled, and Gwen thought, _What sharp teeth you have. _"Do you still love Skye?"

"Steiner, technically. But I do."

"How old are you again, Miss Gwen?"

"One season until I'm nineteen."

"So you're only eighteen?" Jack whistled. "Man, when I was eighteen, I was just learning how to work out taxes, live on my own, and grow a goatee." He winked. "Obviously that last one didn't work out."

"Objection," Ms. Monett drawled. "Relevance of Mr. O'Neil's life story?"

"It's not hurting either side, Your Honor," the prosecutor chuckled.

Judge WP sighed. "Overruled. But Mr. O'Neil, so help me, if we start hearing about your baby years, I'm agreeing with Ms. Monett on this one."

"When you're eighteen, you're just starting life, aren't you?" Jack rephrased. "Had you ever been in love before meeting Skye, Miss Gwen?"

The blonde held her head high. "Yes. As a matter of fact."

"Really?" Jack raised his eyebrows. "How about kissed a boy?"

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. "Well. No."

"Interesting." Jack O'Neil enjoyed watching her squirm in the witness seat before questioning her once again. "Are you a virgin, Miss Gwen?"

"_Objection_! This holds absolutely no relevance to the prosecution's case!" Maria shouted, Gwen's cheeks a decided shade of red. "I fail to see how bullying my witness does anything but make Mr. O'Neil look nosy."

"Sustained. Mr. O'Neil, for _God's_ sake," Judge WP groaned, "make this testimony get somewhere. Now."

He shrugged. "So you're 'in love' with Skye the Phantom Thief," he commented, smirking at the two words. "You've never kissed a boy but him, all he's done is lied to you, and yet you get on this stand and proclaim that you 'love' him and that he's the perfect portrait of a father?"

"What do you want me to do, Mr. O'Neil?" Gwen retorted. "_Lie_?"

Jack sidestepped her rage; this was looking better and better for the jury, wasn't it? The angrier she got, the more defensive she looked, and the worse Skye appeared for seducing a sweet young girl to his side. Excellent.

"How well did you know Willow, Miss Gwen?"

"Wonderfully well. I changed her diapers, I played peek-a-boo, I held her when she cried, and I watched Skye do the exact same thing—except better." Determined, she added, "I even heard her first word."

Jack almost laughed. "Really? Could you share it with the court?"

"Ma," Gwen answered. "She called me Ma." A little sob broke out in the court, and only when Gwen turned did she see Claire shaking in her seat. _Oh, no. Why did I say that?_

"So Skye had kept this baby with you for so long," Jack stated, "that Willow had begun confusing you to be her mother? That psychologically, by being pulled away from her real mother, Willow found herself needing a substitute?"

"How should I know, Mr. O'Neil?" Gwen snapped. "I'm not a psychologist. I'm just a cook."

"And you're not Willow's real mother. You're just an eighteen-year-old cook in love with a lying, kidnapping thief, aren't you?" Jack whirled away from the witness stand and shrugged. "No further questions, Your Honor. The prosecution brings Miss Gina Aires to the stand."

Gwen got out of her seat and ran.

* * *

There were times Gwen had wanted a mother. When making cards in school for Mother's Day. When learning how to use make-up for the first time. When shopping for her first bra. When Bob rejected her. When Skye got arrested.

Now.

Bathrooms always had the scratchiest paper towels, but they were out of tissues, and Gwen couldn't believe she'd broken down crying twice in one day. She'd _thought_ she was doing well. She'd _thought_ that her defense had been honest and true.

She'd thought wrong. Again.

In her mind, Gwen imagined someone hugging her tight, telling her she'd done her best no matter what. Someone was whispering in her ear that she was beautiful, the best daughter anyone could ever ask for, and it didn't matter that some prosecutor thought otherwise, or that the whole jury probably thought the same. She imagined it, because if she didn't, Gwen knew she'd just break down all over again.

There was a creak, and Gwen jumped at the sound of someone exiting a bathroom stall. The woman walked over to the sink, running the water over her hands, and tried to ignore the tears and sobs coming from this girl's tiny body. "Is there any soap in the dispenser?" the lady asked, and only when she spoke did Gwen hear the hitch in her voice.

"Um. Y-yeah."

The water ran in the silence.

"Do you need a tissue?"

Gwen shook her head, but the woman fetched one out of her purse just the same. "You know," the lady murmured again, "I'm, uh, I'm sorry about what happened out there." She stared at the drain. "It wasn't supposed to be about you."

"…I know."

"You're a complete stranger to me," Claire whispered, marveling. "I barely know a thing about you. Just your name, and the fact that you're the woman who's loved my child while I couldn't." Her knees buckled. "Did she…was she happy?"

Gwen nodded slowly. "Absolutely."

"And he truly cared for her, didn't he?"

The mother stared at her anxiously, and it stunned Gwen that she needed to know the answer to that question so desperately. "He treated her like God's gift to Earth. I didn't lie on that stand, Ms. Claire."

"I know," Claire whispered. "But neither did I."

They stood in silence, woman and girl, and it occurred to them both how similar they were: both born in trying circumstances, both once in love with the same man, and hurt consequently for it. But mostly, both wished, with all their heart, for the baby they both loved to be back in their arms.

"Baby Willow looks just like you," Gwen offered finally, breaking the trance. "She's beautiful."

Startled, Claire blushed. "Th-thank you." Strange, wasn't it, how the words of a stranger could fill a heart with such warmth? _I want to return the favor, _she found herself realizing_. I want to apologize for bringing her here. _"The way he looks at you?" Claire spoke, staring at the floor. "I've never seen that before. Never directed at me."

With these unexpected gifts between them, Gwen and Claire smiled—weak, unsure smiles—and crossed past each other to the courtroom.


	24. Chapter 24: Breaking

**Note: **LATE chapter this time, but an important one. :D I'm a big believer in taking time to form judgments, and well, this story will twist itself and turn before I think we can get a verdict. Give me time. I know what I'm doing, guys. ;)

PS: Thank you so much, guys, this story has broken 201 PAGES YESSS. This is so exciting! Group hug.

_**Chapter Twenty-four: **__Breaking_

"The first step to achieving world peace is taking all the lawyers and stuffing them into a deep, dark pit in the ground." Nami lit her cigarette and smirked. "Which is cheaper: flooding it or burying them alive?"

"I'm curious about how you're going to take over the world first." Glancing over, Gustafa flicked the stick from her girlfriend's lips. "You're going to kill yourself if you keep this habit up."

"You smoke your crap," she demanded. "Why not let me smoke mine?"

"You're a lady."

"Right, and you're the pope."

"Well, I've already got the goofy hat thing down."

The redhead laughed and laid on the grassy hill as if to make a snow angel. The snow had been fading with Winter's close end, not that either had noticed with this trial going on. In fact, Nami had decided to ignore the courtroom completely so that she could complain about lawyer troubles in peace. "Seriously, though, that O'Neil guy is a piece of work. What a _kiss_-up. You hear how he talks to the judge as if she's a saint, then talks to a witness like they're five years old? Puh-lease. You couldn't pay me to have that job."

"Maria Monett confuses me," Gustafa added. "She's got that innocent librarian vibe going on, and then she gets up there and it's like, whoa, who knew Nami Stone's long-lost-twin is a blue-haired lawyer?" The detective punched him in the arm for that. Gustafa punched right back, howling with laughter. "You can't even deny it!"

Lesser men would've died for saying that, for Nami harbored her own little vendetta against the soft-spoken, nosy little sneak. Bringing up her job history was one thing. Making her look incompetent, however? That was a death warrant written in blood. "Yeah, well, at least _I've_ got a life outside my career."

"You're welcome, by the way," Gustafa chimed in.

"Shut up. Not everything is about you."

"But it often is, isn't it?"

"Gustafa, your ego is getting in the way of my reply. Shrink it, would you?" Nami stared at the ground, thinking. "Hey, Gustafa? What do you think?"

"About?"

"The trial. If you were the jury, what would you do?"

Gustafa let out a low groan. "Ouch. A serious question this early in the morning? Geez."

"Okay, one, it's noon, and two, you load serious questions on me constantly. So no whining."

"Fine, fine. What would I _do_." He thumbed the brim of his hat, pondering. "Well, for starters I'd be watching the whole trial and not just the part where the ever-so-gorgeous redhead testifies—"

"And I thought _O'Neil_ was a kiss-up?"

"—and secondly, I wouldn't be making a judgment yet." The musician shrugged. "You gotta listen to everything before you make a choice. You never know what someone's thinking just from what they're saying. You gotta listen for what's up here." He tapped his head and nodded. "That's the tough part. Most people just want to hear what's coming out their mouth. Which is usually nonsense."

"Sounds like a certain someone I know," Nami said dryly.

"You know you love me."

"Yeah, yeah."

Gustafa's arms hugged about her waist, and he cradled his head into the crook of her shoulder. She smelled like the earth, fresh and alive. "So," he spoke, kissing her on the cheek, "after this whole crime thing blows over, then what? Do I have to listen to you ramble on about cases and stuff again? Or do I have to share you with the rest of the world via local weather reports?"

Smiling, Nami brought her lips to his ear. "I'll just have to wait and see, won't I? In case something better comes along."

"I've been told I'm a step above good and arguably better than great."

"We'll see," she repeated, nodding. "We'll just have to see."

* * *

"You didn't have to be so harsh."

"Well, sweetie," Jack sighed, stirring his coffee, "tough shit. I'm a lawyer. I rip people apart and get paid for it. What else do you think they teach us in law school, nursery rhymes stuffed with morality?"

"I don't know, the truth?" Claire fumed. "I am not paying you to humiliate a little girl, Jack. I'm paying you to save my kid."

"That's the same thing, isn't it?"

"No. It isn't. And I'm feeling a little sick knowing the money I've saved for Willow's college education is going towards making some teenager look stupid and naïve."

"That defines about every teenager in the nation, _Couz_. Your cute baby is gonna be one eventually, so I wouldn't romanticize the lot of them. You'll want to throw her out soon enough."

"Says the eternal bachelor," Claire spat out. "Look, just…urgh, just stop doing whatever you don't need to do. You can be fair without being cruel, can't you?"

"Oh, sure." Jack took a swig of his coffee—a far cry from Starbucks. Or, really, coffee in general. "But you'd lose. You pick: integrity, or your baby girl?"

Claire clenched her fists. "Those aren't my only options."

"But if they were, I think we both know which you'd choose." Finished with his drink, Jack clapped his cousin on the back and smiled. "Don't worry. You're forgiven."

_Yes, _Claire thought darkly to herself, _but what about you?_

* * *

"I want to see Gwen."

"Yeah, well, I want to see Paris, and my father never let me. Some dreams just stay deferred." Maria kept her eyes locked on O'Neil's witness, this nurse person, and she frowned. This would be a tough cross, especially since there was so much ground to cover—

"She looked awful. Like someone was physically stabbing her, in the heart, several times."

"She has looked better," Maria agreed, catching onto words like "dissociative state" and "kleptomaniac."

"This is all my fault," Skye stated, looking into his lap. "Dammit, I should've just left when I had the chance."

"You still have a chance." She sighed. "Don't obsess over things, please. This fight's not over."

Apparently Gina had made a joke, because there was some tittering among the jury. Maria quietly glowered at her client. He was _not_ helping.

"Maybe I should write her a note," he considered.

"Maybe you should be quiet so I can process what the witness is _saying_."

Stunned, Skye held his tongue, and relieved, Maria turned her ears back to the witness, just in time to hear Jack announce, "Nothing further," as he stepped down.

"Ms. Monett? Your cross-examination, please?"

Maria could understand, in that moment, what made someone commit murder. Skye, with good reason, trembled in his handcuffs.

* * *

"Miss Aires, you did not examine only my client, did you?"

"No," the nurse replied pleasantly. "I spoke with the prosecution's client, Ms. Claire, on numerous occasions."

"Really? How often is numerous?"

"I'd say daily for about half of a season."

"How many times did you speak to my client, Skye?"

"Only once." She beamed. "But I got what was necessary."

Maria lifted her head, tapping her chin in thought. "So you spoke to Ms. Claire about fifteen times—"

"Roughly."

"—But only once with Skye?"

"Correct."

"I'm sure the jury is curious; what was the purpose of so many visits to Ms. Claire on your part?"

"Well, many reasons," Gina began. "She was experiencing conflict in all areas of her life: her familial life, specifically. Childhood abuse. The guilt of a secret affair. Her daughter's disappearance. The separation of her from her spouse. One person can only handle so much on their own. My job was to help her conquer each problem, one visit at a time."

"Now, before you came in, how did Ms. Claire handle those problems?"

"In the case of abuse and the affair? Denial. If she didn't let herself think about it, it didn't happen. In the case of the kidnapping? Displaced anger. The separation? Incessant guilt."

"Are any of these coping mechanisms healthy?"

"No," Gina chirped. "But they _are_ normal."

"How did you stumble upon Ms. Claire?"

"Dr. Hardy called me up from Forget-Me-Not. He'd discovered some buried problems in her past, and as a friend of Doctor Trent—Ms. Claire's husband—he also knew about the kidnapping and the separation. He wanted her to see a specialist. So I was called."

"Were there any other reasons for Dr. Hardy's concern?"

"Oh, yes," Gina nodded. "For one thing, she hadn't responded healthily to either the kidnapping or the separation. According to him, Ms. Claire reacted to the kidnapping by shouting and screaming at a mere painting of the defendant. She reacted to the separation by drinking heavily and passing out in her own field."

A murmur of surprise traveled through the jury. Maria smiled. "Was this behavior expected?"

"From Ms. Claire? Well, I've heard it's uncharacteristic of her. And from meeting her, I'd conclude the same."

"Yet if someone behaves the same way twice, isn't it possible it could happen again?"

"Based on my experience? Absolutely."

"What if Willow hurt herself horribly? Or Claire fought with husband once more? Could that trigger the same reaction?"

"A duller version, I'd think, but it's possible."

"Through speaking with Ms. Claire," Ms. Monett interrogated, "can you share with the jury her feelings for Willow prior to the kidnapping?"

_What kind of a question is that? _O'Neil wondered to himself. _What the hell is that rookie doing, exactly?_

Gina took in a deep breath.

"You realize you are under oath, Miss Aires."

"I know."

Trent raised an eyebrow and turned to his wife. "Darling? Are you alright?" Claire said nothing, eyes transfixed on the woman she'd thought to be her only friend. "Dearest?"

"Miss Aires, it's not a difficult question. How did Ms. Claire feel towards Willow prior to the kidnapping?"

Gina's sweet little smile had fallen, and she folded within herself. "She loved her," the nurse spoke carefully, "but…she resented her, too."

The entire court became silent, so silent that the tiniest cough or a sneeze would echo off the walls. "Resented," Maria repeated. "A mother resenting her _child_. How does that work?"

"Ms. Claire didn't have good role models for parents," Gina tried to explain. "Sometimes she felt frustrated, so she told me. Frustrated enough that she'd think things she didn't mean. Her husband worked often. Often, she'd have to discover how to raise Willow herself. It wasn't an easy process for her."

"We know how she coped with the kidnapping and the separation. Miss Aires, would you tell the court how she coped with raising Willow?"

Gina bit her lip.

"Miss Aires?"

Gina fidgeted.

"Miss Aires, would you answer?"

"Usually, she did fine," Gina treaded carefully. "But she did tell me of…not so practical coping mechanisms."

"Like?"

Claire swallowed something in her throat, waiting for the inevitable. Three…two…one.

"Well."

* * *

She'd been screaming. So loud, so damn loud, that Claire's ears just might bleed. "What do you want? Milk?" The farmer rubbed furiously at the bags under her eyes. Things blurred a bit those days; her eyes teared up easily, and oh, they itched, itched to death. Sleep had become a luxury, not a priority. After all, between this field and Willow, what did Claire have to herself anymore? "What, are you tired? Need to burp? Diaper-change? What?"

It'd been terrifying in the beginning. Terrifying _now_. She'd stopped changing her shirts, because the milk stained them all without fail; it'd been the bras that needed changing these days. She'd cried when Willow's mouth bit down hard on her breast, not expecting such a sharp blow. Her hips fleshed out; her breasts hung low. Looking in the mirror, Claire honestly couldn't recognize herself anymore. She looked alien, strange. No mother had warned her of these things. They'd each jumped on her, one startling surprise after the other.

"What do you want?" Claire repeated, louder now. "Just _tell_ me, why don't you?"

"_She's beautiful, Claire. Can't you just tell she wants to say hello?"_

Trent, beautiful doctoring Trent, had helped with his big impressive biology texts, which Claire would have loved to read—if she'd had time. Willow squirmed on the bed, squalling in pain, and those tiny fists pumped into the air as if accusing her mother of her incompetence. "I—I don't know what you want from me. Do this when your father comes home, would you?"

"_You're such a good mother. I'm so proud of you for taking care of her while I'm away."_

"Come on, she has—it's got to be something." The diaper, dry. The milk, already emptied from Claire's aching body. The rocking, no good at all. Claire ran her fingers through her unbrushed hair, catching onto tangles. "Just be quiet, why can't you be quiet?"

"_Aren't we blessed, to have a child so soon in our marriage? Proof of our love, isn't it?"_

She'd tried talking to Samantha, that mother who'd moved in. Kate was her kid, wasn't she? That freckle-faced girl. "What do I do?" Claire had begged her. "How do you do this?" And Samantha had held her nose up high, disgusted at Claire's ugly state, and spoke out, coldly, "What am I, your _nanny_? Figure it out yourself, why don't you?" Claire had heard her and Chris gossiping, swapping a stupid farmer girl's tales of failure.

But Claire had been proud, dammit. She'd kept the baby up later, hoping the child would sleep the morning through so she could work the fields. But emptying herself for a child, and throwing her energy into sickles, watering cans, and hoes, left behind nothing at all. Her husband came home to an empty shell, scraping together a meal. "I'm home, honey," Trent would say. "What's for dinner?" She wanted to strangle him for it.

Claire loved Willow. But she'd never meant to have her. And she'd never asked to change her life for her.

"Scream all you want! Scream, scream, see if I care! I can scream, too." The frustration boiled over, and Claire tossed the diapers to the side, shouting. "I can scream, and still no one does what I want! Not you, not Trent, not anyone, so shut up!" Her hands clamped on the sides of the cradle, rocking to the beat of her sobs. "I didn't want you! I didn't want this!"

What happened next confused her. She remembered knocking the crib's blanket to the floor, storming outside, crying. But then she remembers entering the stable and taking her horse's reins without ever planning where to go. She rode for hours, and hours, and hours, until the pain began to fade. She cried until only guilt remained. She came home and promised her baby girl she didn't mean a thing, that mommy was here now, that she'd never leave her again.

That didn't stop God from punishing her for it.

"_Fair maiden, I'll steal your heart this very night_."

Why, oh why, hadn't she listened?


	25. Chapter 25: Lullaby

**Note**: (LATE SORRY) Alright. I try to keep my notes short and sweet, but I need to say something. Rose, you are a dear _dear_ friend of mine. You've been reading this longer than anyone, and I know what side you've been on since day one. And I direct the next part to both you and the readers: Don't ever, ever assume I hate one side. Don't think I'm writing this to appease other people's wishes. I do not hate Claire. Actually, I _love_ her. She's born from insecurities I am human enough to admit I have, though I do not act upon them. Both she and Skye are heroes in my eyes. Don't ever assume differently. And don't pretend, (coughROSE, haha) that you know where my story's going next. 'Cause I just might prove you wrong. ;)

Disclaimer: Certain events in this chapter are built off research, and if you find my portrayal of them inaccurate, by all means let me know so I may correct it. And I would have upped the language of certain characters, but I'd really rather not use the F-bomb. You'll see what I mean.

_**Chapter Twenty-five: **__Lullaby_

"Your Honor! I'd like to redirect." Holy hell, Jack was sweating. "Miss Aires. Under stress, isn't it probable that any mother could make a mistake of that nature?"

"Well, yes, it's probable."

"And didn't Ms. Claire learn from her mistakes?" O'Neil insisted.

"I believe so."

"Didn't she, in fact, go to a specialist for help?"

"That she did."

"Well, then." Jack turned to the jury and shrugged. "No further questions."

Maria Monett stood up again, a statue of gray stone. "I, too, would like to redirect, Your Honor. Miss Aires, please. Did Ms. Claire learn from her mistakes before or after Willow was allegedly kidnapped?"

"That's hard to answer, but…her sessions with me," Gina murmured, "were after."

"And did she ask for your help, or did someone—like Dr. Hardy—ask _for_ her?"

"Dr. Hardy made the arrangements," Gina admitted.

Smugly, Maria brought challenging eyes on Mr. Jack O'Neil from the city. "No further questions."

Jack swallowed a lump in his throat.

"The witness may step down."

* * *

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Jack shoved Claire hard against the wall, fuming. He didn't think his face could turn so red, that his voice could become so loud. "Why in God's name didn't you inform me of that?"

His cousin retreated within herself. "What did you want me to say?"

"Oh, I don't know—that your mothering skills suck beyond all comprehension?!" he hollered. "Defense attorneys are the ones who deal with liars, not prosecutors! I'm not a mind-reader, and I can't patch up your Achilles' heel until I know you've got one!"

"She wasn't supposed to say any of that," Claire protested in a tiny voice. "It was all told in private."

"She's a psychiatrist, not a priest, Claire. Anything you said to her is fair game."

"And how was I supposed to know that, all those weeks ago?"

"Shit, I can't believe we're related." Jack thumbed through his papers with a snort. "I must be adopted or something. No one with my blood would be so—"

Immediately the blonde bristled. "So _what_?"

"It doesn't matter now. Point is, our ship could be sunk. Wanna know why?"

Of course Claire did, but she wasn't about to admit that.

"One, it's not just your kid. Two, you lied about that kid's daddy. Three, you abandoned that kid. Four, you're a compulsive liar. And five? That baby can't testify for you, which would be just about the only thing that could turn this case around now."

"This isn't about me," Claire muttered, Gwen's words repeating in her ears. "It's about what he did to my baby. It's about justice."

"True. But don't think that jury won't be comparing your mistakes with Skye's. Tell me," Jack continued, "if you were in a jury, and you learned that a mother had kidnapped her baby to protect it from a dangerously alcoholic father, would you arrest her?"

Begrudgingly, Claire shook her head.

"What about a parent saving a child from sexual abuse via kidnapping?"

Again, she shook her head.

"So you tell me. Is a father saving his baby from a woman who can barely save herself just as understandable?"

Her eyes flashed. "I'm not a raging alcoholic. I'm no sexual predator. I'm just a mother who doesn't know what she's doing. That's not a crime, Jack."

"I know," O'Neil agreed. "But the jury might say what Skye did wasn't a crime, either."

"This isn't even about custody!"

"Well, Claire, it sure as hell is now."

* * *

Trent had lost sight of his wife. Sometime in the middle of Gina's testimony, she'd slipped away in the shadows, and come to think of it, that slimeball O'Neil had vanished shortly after Miss Aires was done speaking, hadn't he? His jaw tightened at the thought of that lawyer; related to his wife or not, what he wouldn't give to punch that man full in the mouth.

"Claire? Darling?"

"What do you know, anyway? I'd like to see you try and do better than I did! I'd like to see you be the perfect parent!"

The doctor followed the sounds in the hall, and there she stood, fists clenched and forehead glistening with sweat. Compared to the athletic O'Neil, she could have been a mere twig in the wind, but Trent never thought he'd seen anyone stand so strong. "Don't tell me my child is lost. Don't you dare think I'm going to let her leave me again. I can't believe that's justice, Jack."

"It's not justice," he scoffed. "It's the court. You naïve little girl, what made you think they were the same thing?"

"I am not so little anymore."

"And you're not so naïve, right?" Jack snorted. "I'll do what I can, Couz. But I'm not a miracle-man, and you're not a sweet, innocent, wonderful Mommy. You're a screw-up, and the jury knows it."

"If I hear you say that about my wife again," Trent heard himself growl, "I will personally make sure you'll never father any children in this world."

The air became so still Claire could hardly breathe. Eyes wide with surprise, Jack choked out a laugh and shook his head, red-faced. "Well. Huh. Didn't see the big bad wolf over there."

"People like you should not be promoting justice."

Jack's chuckling increased. "_Another_ idealist! Geez. I figured the doctor would at least know better." Then, with a little sigh, Jack muttered, "Then again, what do you expect from a cuckold, right?"

Trent didn't understand what happened next. His fist connected with something solid, and the next thing he knew, blood had spattered on that fine Armani suit. Someone screamed—his wife?—and Jack let out a stream of curses as he stumbled to his feet. "And just so you know," Trent announced, deadpan, "You're fired."

No one said a word as he walked his wife out and slammed the door shut.

* * *

"Have you been praying?"

Skye's head snapped up from his nap and he blinked. "Um. Yes?"

"Well, then it's been working." Maria, cheeks aglow, scooted beside her client and patted him on the knee. "That last cross was fantastic. I thought we were going for a swan song there, but what with Claire's mistake, this could convince the jury you're the better parent." When this failed to get a reaction from him, Maria added, "And to top things off?"

"What?"

"They've fired their attorney!" Practically squealing (Skye had never _seen_ the woman so unprofessional), Maria exclaimed, "That means not only do we get a quick break, but we get someone who's got to catch up to speed, so we're a few steps ahead of whomever comes."

"They've fired Jack O'Neil?"

Maria nodded, beaming. "It's wonderful. I hated that SOB, anyway."

A long, shaky gasp left Skye's throat. He could win this. There was actually a chance, in this mixed-up world, that he could come out of the trial scot-free, with Willow in his arms. The idea initially shot thrills through his spine—

"But Claire?" He didn't know why he said that. But the question struck him as important, even if Maria's expression clearly said that it didn't seem so important to her.

"Well. Hm. That's the jury's call, not mine. But there's a chance for full-custody, I'm betting."

"Because I deserve to be Willow's father?" Skye pressed.

Again, Maria hesitated. "More because Claire doesn't deserve to be Willow's mother."

"_I can't be with someone like you. You know that. I need…dependency, responsibility, honesty. You're not the marrying type. I could never marry you."_

Stunned. There was no other word to describe that numb sensation settling in Skye's body. _Don't I want to be free?_ He stared at the handcuffs as if by glaring he could melt them away. _Don't I want to be with Gwen? With my baby girl?_

And then that question again: _"But Claire? What about Claire?"_

There were no easy answers. In fact, there never were.

"Is there any other way?" Skye whispered.

The mirth had begun to leave Ms. Monett now, the regret in her client's eyes a sobering blow to her spirits. "You want the truth?" she answered. "No. Not that I can see."

Skye nodded slowly. His blue eyes flickered towards the windows, and he found himself asking, "Could I see the prison? The real one. The one they'll send me to if I lose."

"Don't think like that—"

"No. I need to know."

Maria chewed her lip, obviously displeased at the thief's behavior. "You want a field trip? Fine. I'll show you. You win."

* * *

Luckily, Judge WP was available to allow Skye to travel across border lines. Luckily, Bob was fine with driving both Skye and his lawyer to the state penitentiary.

"We're lucky we get to do this," Maria had told him. Lucky. Thieves treated that word like gold. Now, it made Skye shudder to the core.

He had not expected a line of misfits: black-eyed, normally-clothed, everyday people that stretched from the front to the back of the pre-intake area. He did not understand what possessed Maria to pull him among them, walk over to the guards, and explain something about "showing" him the process. When the officer eyed him, considering him nothing more than another number on his list, and told him, "Alright, then. Strip-search," Skye couldn't say he knew where he was or what he was doing as the clothing slipped from his able body. Open your mouth. Raise your arms. Bend. Spread your legs. Like a sick game of Simon says.

Bob followed him again, standing at Skye's side. Next came the row of inmates, and Skye held his head high as he could while he withstood the jeers—"hey pretty boy, lookee here, we got ourselves a beauty queen"—the curses, the pasts etched on those men's faces, and the absolute lack of souls in a world that forced them to become empty shells in orange uniforms. One man lay on the floor, passed out in his own vomit. Another one was being dragged off in the distance, screaming and fists red with some poor soul's blood.

"Hey, homo." Skye stiffened as a beefy man stood up in a cell, an obscene tattoo throbbing on his brow. "What you lookin' at? You think this is a freak show?" A laugh. "Damn, if we couldn't screw a pretty princess like you. Fresh meat."

Skye tried to pretend he didn't see the piercing glare in that man's eyes. He ignored the thought that he was just as transparent as them, underneath these normal clothes. He denied the truth that he'd be crushed in a world like that, vulnerable and weak, no matter who wound up in his cell.

"Well?" Maria prodded as Bob brought him back outside. "Did you finally get some sense in that skull of yours?"

He kept silent all the way back to his cell, and only then did he let himself—for the first time in twenty years—cry.

* * *

Willow, Trent thought to himself, looked just like her mother: fragile, fair, ocean-eyed and warm. She giggled when he made faces at her, played with stethoscope he'd brought out of habit, and blew raspberries just because she'd finally learned how to do it just right. Yet of course she'd been difficult to raise. Hadn't she?

The doctor glanced over to the bed where Claire was sleeping soundly. Her arm crossed over her face and her legs were pulled up close, the covers wadded up at the bed's end. He ached to see her like that. He flinched at the memories of her waking to tend to the baby, while he'd stayed in bed without thinking.

People kept blaming Claire in that courtroom. Couldn't they see _he_ was to blame, not her?

A light tapping at the door distracted him. The innkeeper girl, Gwen, Skye's girlfriend, the girl who'd run from the witness stand, smiled at him and blushed. "Um. Phone's for you downstairs."

Because he trusted her, Trent put Willow in her arms and thundered down to the telephone. "Yes?" he spoke breathlessly into the speaker. "This is Dr. Trent."

"_This is the law offices of Dawn, Smith, and Smith. I understand you need another attorney for your case?"_

"Yes, our prosecutor was…well. We're in desperate need of one, and according to your track record—"

"_Yes. I do believe we'd be a good fit as well."_

Delirious, Trent opened his mouth to produce no sound.

"_Shall we make the arrangements, then, Dr. Trent?_"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely." Out of the corner of his eye, Trent saw a man decked in brand name attire stomp his way to a distant train. "I'd like nothing more."

* * *

"Are you sure about this?"

"No."

"Well, isn't _that_ comforting."

"Chicken."

"Gustafa, since when has calling someone a chicken led to them mountain climbing?"

It had, of course, been the stupid green man's idea to go searching for activities in Flowerbud. Which meant Nami had to blame him for discovering the fabled Mt. Moon and the town sport of climbing it. She blew her red bangs from her eyes and frowned.

"This is stupid."

"No," Gustafa corrected her, "this is taking _risks_. And c'mon. What's the worst that could happen?"

"We could _die_?"

"So? It's bound to happen anyway."

He'd already attached his harness, and Nami, despite herself, had done the same. She squinted up at the sky, a hazy mix of white and blue, and Gustafa tucked his hat under a rock so that it wouldn't blow away. "What do you think is up there?" Nami wondered aloud.

"Who knows. That's part of the fun, isn't it?" The musician tossed his hook to the cliff and crowed when it caught snugly on the edge. Not to be outdone, Nami followed suit, and when Gustafa began to climb up that craggy edge, well, the detective figured she might as well go all the way.

Her feet slipped on the stones, but she caught her footing each time. And that stupid guitarist—Nami had to keep screaming, "Move it!" at his stupid head when rocks tumbled overhead. The cold winter wind tugged at them both on this ledge, and Nami wondered, about a thousand times, _why_ she'd done this again exactly.

When they reached the top, she knew.

Colors spilled over the top of the hills, brilliant yellows and reds shadowing a children's playset of houses and animals. Why, she could open her hand and block out half the farmer's field with her thumb. "It's incredible." She panted, turning to her companion. "Do you believe this view?"

For once, Gustafa didn't say a word.

"I didn't think it'd be…so beautiful. It's like we're watching from a cloud." Nami stretched back, seeing, to her delight, that sunset was coming on. The painter of skies had already brought its oranges and pinks into play, and the canopy of clouds formed a halo over the setting sun. "Gustafa?"

"Don't. Move."

Craning her neck ever so slightly, Nami saw something more spectacular than the view, more awe-inspiring than all the sunsets in the world rolled together. "Oh…God."

The creature loomed magnificent above them, eyes golden and wings spanning a distance Nami could barely judge. A zephyr from the west ruffled its proud plumage; its beak opened to let loose a piercing caw. "What is it," Nami whispered. She realized belatedly that her hands had hooked onto Gustafa's shoulders as he looked down into her eyes.

"That," he answered, "is part of nature's Beauty."

They stood together in an awed silence as this majestic beast thundered about in the skies. They did not say a word when it flew off with the sun to the west. They did not need to say anything as they saw the gift the bird had left behind, a blue feather sitting on the rocks.

No, they didn't need a single word.


	26. Chapter 26: Rising

**Note: **Late. AGAIN. (cry) I typed practically all of this on Saturday so it might be rough and unpolished but I've been getting distracted lately by a certain person who thinks he can monopolize my time, SO I'm doing what I can. The story's winding down, guys. Dunno how much longer we're gonna have. (Soooo excited!)

And thanks to **kelly28**, who corrected me for my erroneous portrayal of a psychiatrist on the stand. Apparently they can reveal _nothing_ without the consent of their patient. Therefore, The Scarlet Sky needs to be better about consulting the internet, courtroom novels, and Phoenix Wright for her writing material. She apologizes profusely for her inexperience and hopes no one will attack her with tomatoes.

_**Chapter Twenty-Six: **__Rising_

"We haven't seen this much business in all the years I've been working the inn." Doug wiped his nose and grunted, all the newly washed plates in front of him enough to supply a small army. "Maybe we should have court cases more often, eh?"

"That's not funny, Uncle Doug."

"I wasn't trying to be."

"Well, either way." Gwen rubbed her hands raw with a towel, all the soap and suds soaking her work apron. Her red eyes narrowed in like jewels on the clock, her little heart beating like a hummingbird's wings. "Do we have that new room ready?"

"For the new tenant? Absolutely."

"Huh." Gwen nodded. "That's good."

The innkeeper ran his hands through his red hair, at a loss. His niece had fallen silent, a habit becoming more frequent of late, and she'd begun to stare at the clock with an obsession that frankly bothered him. Immensely. Gwen used to be so carefree about stuff like that. Gwen just…used to be careful in general.

"Hey, uh." He coughed. "If you, uh, want a ride up to the jail to see him, I'd be happy to—"

"No. No, I'm fine." She bounced from one foot to the other and began to do this little humming thing, finding bits and pieces from songs and piecing them together in a broken harmony. "Actually, I was wondering."

"About?"

"The food they give him." Gwen turned her head to the side, pondering. "What do you suppose they feed him? You know. In there."

Doug, at a loss, shrugged. "I wouldn't know. You could probably ask Miz Detective Stone."

"I dunno. She kinda strikes me as the person you don't direct stupid questions to." Gwen paused. "I think I'd like to find out, actually. What he eats. It's probably awful."

"Probably. I doubt they worry too much about diets in prison."

"And while he's at the local station," Gwen continued, "and he's the only inmate…I suppose…it wouldn't be too unusual if I asked…?"

"Of course it doesn't hurt to ask," Doug pushed her.

For the first time in a long while, Gwen smiled. "Uncle Doug? I just might take that offer from you after all."

* * *

"Well." A pause. "I suppose you know why I'm here." The woman shook her brown tresses from her shoulder; cleared her throat; in a meticulous, practiced fashion, extended a pale white hand. "I assume you are Doctor Trent and Ms. Claire? I'm Jill Dawn, your new prosecutor."

Claire, despite herself, was shaking. Her husband had soothed her all morning, insisting that this lawyer would be different. Well, she'd thought Gina had been different, and the nurse had spilled her whole life story in that courtroom. She'd thought Skye had been harmless, and he'd stolen her baby girl. She'd thought she could put her past behind her, and look where Claire stood now.

"A pleasure. We're thrilled to meet you," the doctor answered, smiling. Claire bobbed her head in feeble agreement. Oh, thank God she was holding Willow now; she needed something to hold close. She let her eyes wander, shy, and Trent caught onto all the questions she was too afraid to speak in front of this new and unfamiliar woman. "Ms. Dawn, I know this will be hard for you, especially so late into the trial, but…what do you think our chances are?"

The lawyer pursed her thin lips. "Honestly?"

"Yes."

"According to the court records," Jill began, "you are at a disadvantage. But it's my intention to fix that, because the jury is being very cleverly duped."

Claire's head snapped up. "Duped?"

"Absolutely." Jill Dawn had the most pristine nails the farmer had ever seen, all cut in a perfect arch with the pink of seashells. She had a habit of examining them as she spoke, avoiding eye contact with each sweep of her hand. "See, defense attorneys work as magicians do for children—surely you remember those?"

Trent and Claire nodded slowly.

"They're basically distracting the jury from the big picture." With a sly smile, Jill added, "The purpose of this case, essentially, is to prove whether or not Skye the Phantom Thief illegally kidnapped a child. Regardless of your parenting skills, Ms. Claire, he did this very thing. Ms. Monett is just playing the jury by their heartstrings. Like puppets, if you will."

"Puppets," Claire repeated.

"Precisely. See, people are easily swayed by feelings." Jill Dawn let her gaze flicker from her hands to the blonde at her side. "I am sure you're aware of this. Both of you seem to be as prone to that fault as I, and all people, are."

Defenses bubbled in Claire's throat. She swallowed them back bitterly.

"There are a few ways I want to go about this," Jill continued. "First of all, I'd like to see some of your personal items. Check a few licenses. Look through some photos."

"And why would you need those?" Claire blurted out. "That's private, isn't it?"

"I need to piece together some things my predecessor found unimportant," Jill replied calmly. "Obviously, ignoring them did not help him any, and I'd like to test a hunch of mine."

"I don't like not knowing what you're thinking," Claire demanded. Her voice rose with desperation; Trent cringed with each new decibel. "I've already had one lawyer who didn't trust me, and I'd like to know if I've made the mistake of hiring another."

Willow began to cry. Ms. Dawn let her eyes survey Claire up and down, and Claire, used to this by now, held her head up high. "Doctor Trent," the brunette began. "May I speak to your wife alone?" Immediately his hands clenched; Jill smiled to herself. "I have no intention of getting violent or rude, I assure you. I simply wish to speak to her alone."

"It's fine, Trent," Claire hissed. "I can handle myself." _At least in front of this woman I can. _

The doctor's muscles tensed, relaxed, tensed again. Yet it was a look from Claire that finally made him relent and leave for the door, and only when it slammed did Jill finally speak. "So. You don't believe I'm going to handle this case well, do you?"

It was a statement, not a question. "I think you'll do your job," Claire amended. "But…I don't want someone who's just, well, doing their job. I want someone who believes in me." She patted her baby on the head and sighed. "No. I need someone who believes in _us_."

Jack O'Neil had been cold from the start: a slippery, smooth, self-centered soul with eyes as blind as the jury he led. A man like that couldn't see Claire as anything but a monster, a defective mother fighting an uphill battle. It didn't matter that they were related, not at all. They didn't have a connection that transcended blood. And that, in the end, was what Claire needed.

Jill Dawn tucked her arms about herself and raised an eyebrow; it had been plucked just so, her entire face taken care of in an irritatingly faultless fashion. Her good heels tapped the floor, an answer spinning in her clever lawyer's mind. "Well. You think I don't understand a person like you, Ms. Claire, but I do ."

"Don't you dare assume—!"

"I don't assume. I know." Her hands pressed to her temples and a little sigh slipped past those pale lips. Claire bristled at the distant look in those eyes, then started a bit; no, Jill Dawn hadn't been looking at the farmer at all, but rather the little girl in her arms. "You are not the only one who has been abused as a child," Jill spoke simply. "I was raped by my uncle. Repeatedly. From the time I was eight years old." Everything slowed down, each breath catching on unmoving air. "I didn't tell a soul. I was too afraid to. So I grew up. I moved away. I found a man who I loved and married him, expecting things to be different." A ghost of a smile creased her lips. "Of course, expectations are unrealistic. I had children, like you do. Twin boys."

"Had?" Claire whispered.

A steady nod. "My husband decided, one day, that he didn't want to be a husband anymore. So we went to court. And the jury handed my sons to the man who'd turned his back on me after seven years." Jill laughed. "The basis for his defense, of course, was my childhood. That's what brings me to my statement, Ms. Claire."

With the bearing of an empress, the lawyer stepped forward and placed her hand on little Willow's head, brushing her fuzzy blonde hair. A little smile lit her face. "I not only understand people like you, Ms. Claire; I, in fact, am just the same as you are. Only I know what you can lose." Her voice hitched. "I know that all too well, Ms. Claire. And believe me, come hell or high water, I will do whatever I can to make sure you never have to know my pain."

* * *

Skye couldn't sleep.

He'd turn one way on that hard, stiff bed, and it'd be as if he hadn't moved at all; everything felt rock hard, and his whole body shook under the thin blankets. His eyes would close only to open and escape the terrifying darkness of his mind, the jeers and the cries that now echoed in every silence. There'd been a time he'd never feared consequences, death, hell.

Of course, he hadn't truly known what hell was then, either.

"Don't worry," Ms. Monett told him when mentioned his fears. "You can still win this. Don't be such a pessimist."

But no. She didn't understand, did she? How could she, so prim and proper and clean in those lawyer clothes? Whatever the result of the trial was, this would be merely a job to her. To Skye, it meant the difference between redemption and rejection.

Not necessarily Guilty and Not Guilty.

Hours and hours spent in isolation left him with nothing but his own thoughts to console him. Skye didn't know which thoughts to think on first, and they all jumped on him with relentless urgency, all rising in volume until he wished his brain deaf to reality. Why had he done this? He was trying to remember, now, but the more he tried, Skye found the memory becoming harder and harder to recall. What possessed him to put him where he stood now?

"_The doctor loves me. He loves me, and he doesn't steal; he doesn't cheat; he doesn't lie. Being hurt isn't the same thing as being loved, Skye. So steal the feather if you want to, fine, but I'll marry him just the same. I owe you nothing."_

He'd thought about her a lot. Claire. Skye marveled at how little he'd thought of her these past few months, how he'd pushed her from his consciousness so cleanly. Ironic, wasn't it, how that day he first saw baby Willow her mother was all that occupied his thoughts? Claire, and the way she pouted when he got his way. Claire, and the way she blushed when he surprised her with a sweet word. Claire, and how she tried so damn, damn hard to hold back those feelings he'd stirred within her fragile heart.

These two months…he'd felt almost nothing for her. Absolute emptiness. How could you feel that strongly for someone, and then lose it all so soon?

"Hey, thief." The voice startled him, and Skye glanced down to see a plate shoved under the slot of his door. "Your dinner." Skye frowned. It seemed a little different this evening, and for some reason the hand had hesitated, staying on the plate when normally Bob would pull away immediately.

In fact…it wasn't a male hand at all.

"Thought you might want something a little more familiar before tomorrow," Gwen whispered, and oh, Skye would recognize that blessed voice anywhere. He knelt down on the stone floor and took her hand in the most reverent manner, squeezing it until he could be convinced this was real, that this wasn't a dream at all. "I made a deal with the station," she explained softly. "They watch me cook, and when it's done, if I haven't done anything wrong, you can get served by me." She chuckled. "Bob's watching us right now, though. Not that you can see."

"I've missed you so much," Skye found himself saying. "I…I'm so sorry."

"You should be," she replied. "But it's okay." She held onto the silence for a moment more. "I forgive you."

Then that soft and slender hand pulled away from sight, and the sound of little footsteps echoed and echoed in Skye's ears until he wasn't sure if he'd dreamt them in the first place.

* * *

"It's late."

"Mhm."

"We should've left some time ago."

"Yup."

Nami rolled over on her side and propped her chin on her hand, Gustafa a green silhouette against the night sky. "You gonna play with that feather all night?" she remarked dryly. He ran his fingers up and down it, shrugging. "How old are you, five?"

"It's soft," he explained. As if that excused it.

"Yeah, well, the ground here isn't."

"You're just a pessimist."

"You're just a child in a grown man's body."

"But I'm an optimistic one."

She weighed her possible answers and decided it wasn't worth it, not anymore. Ever since that strange bird had swooped down, leaving a single blue feather behind, neither had considered climbing down, not exactly. Something strange burned within them: awe, majesty, something stronger than them both. Either way, Nami felt no inclination to start down that treacherous cliff, and neither did Gustafa, who was distracted by his shiny new toy.

Then nightfall had come, and left them stranded.

"So which side of the mountain do you want?" Nami asked. "I'm comfy here, but you know. I'm flexible with moving."

"Do whatever you want."

"Suit yourself." The detective stretched her head on the dirt, curling to her side. "See you in the morning…I guess."

The air whistled as the cloak of darkness shrugged about them both, and a little sigh sounded on the breeze. "Hey, Nami?"

"Sleeping here. What?"

"How optimistic is…too optimistic?" She opened a blue eye and saw him clutching that feather close, head raised to the skies. His lips had turned into an ironic little smile, one too unsure to be genuine. Immediately her senses heightened; she sat up, found she could barely breathe.

"Gustafa—"

"I just need to know." A pause. "You…I never asked you if you believe in fate, did I?"

She shook her head, mind buzzing. _A blue feather. I should've thought of this, I should've realized…_

"I see," he murmured. He chuckled to himself. "It's ironic, you know, cause I do. Not necessarily stuff like…tarot cards and fortune cookies…but little things. Serendipitous ones."

"Ordinary coincidences," Nami clarified.

He smiled. "Something like that, yes."

Everything flashed by: returning to Forget-Me-Not after years absence, seeing him before any other individual there, being fired, being brought here, seeing that beautiful creature only for…the past to replay and fall into her lap.

A second chance. Or a second mistake.

"Serendipity," she repeated. Her chest felt full; her head felt light. "Not all that logical of a theory, is it?"

"You're sounding like a detective I know, you know that?" The humor sounded dead on his tongue. Nami shivered, consequences hanging heavy in the air. "But I'm not asking about logic. I'm asking…if things have changed."

Sparks shooting through your veins. A yearning seated deep within you, unfed and desperate to fill. Unspoken emotions so strong words rendered them meaningless. Could this…change…qualify for turning her back on everything, Nami wanted to know? Could two seasons of absolute emotion truly predict a lifetime of happiness?

"Well. You don't have to decide now."

His hand slipped that sparkling gem into his pocket, and Nami felt her pent-up breath release, her whole body quivering. _No_. It would have been so simple to say. _No_. She'd certainly said it often enough before. _No, Gustafa. This is who I am. Accept it. No._

Her skin burned upon her now, sweat pricking her brow. Gustafa had leaned back as far as possible from her side, casting her a cursory glance as he lifted his hat from his head. His lips formed words, tender and kind, and Nami could feel her heart unraveling, a deep-seated pain ringing in her soul.

"Good night."

And then, the words that shocked the silence:

"I love you."

Neither could say who felt the tremor of that promise more: Gustafa, or the shaking girl who'd spoken it aloud.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

"But there's no going back if we do. We can't undo what's said."

"I know that. But it's what I want."

The quiet laid like death over them both, Maria Monett taking in a long, desperate breath. "If you want to go on that stand, I can't guarantee that you'll win this trial."

"But I can guarantee that I'll have said my part. And that's all the guarantee I need."

"Then know as your lawyer, I do not approve of this step and will be signing legal papers announcing so."

"Do what you want," Skye replied. "I won't stop you if you won't stop me."

Her tidy footsteps took her to the judge's bench, and Skye gazed at his jurors—staring long and hard at each face, scrutinizing them just as they would him. "Your Honor, I'd like to bring the defendant to the witness stand." He winced at the clacking of his handcuffs on the ground, took shuffling steps to the seat where so many had sat before him. For once, he sat elevated before them all, the freak in the spotlight for all to see.

"Your name and occupation for the record," Maria Monett began.

"Skye the Phantom Thief. I'm currently a waiter at Doug's Inn. But in the past, I have also been a thief."

"Where have you been living these past two months?"

"Flowerbud Village, Doug's Inn."

"What brought you there?"

"Well." He paused. "Fate took me there, I suppose."

"And your previous residence was?"

"Forget-Me-Not Valley. But I didn't really have a home there, not in the normal sense of the word. I was a drifter."

"And that is where you met Ms. Claire?"

"Yes. That is where we crossed paths."

"What was your relationship?"

"Romantic."

"Unrequited, or did she feel the same way towards you?"

"Yes, we were both in love," Skye repeated, the words flat on his tongue. _Were_, he wanted to repeat. _Things have changed now._

"How did your relationship end, Mr. Skye?"

"Skye," he corrected. "You don't need to call me 'Mr.' anything. I'm not much of a 'Mr.' guy."

"Alright, then. Skye, how did your relationship end?"

He sought her face in the crowd, and she certainly stood out with her white visage and striking blonde locks. Willow sat in her arms, an unfair advantage to her side, and her eyes stared at him with hatred and fear. "I don't know exactly," he spoke. "I wasn't the one who decided that."

"Would you elaborate on that?"

"Claire and I had been seeing each other nearly a year. We'd become intimate, as she said during her testimony, and I…well, I got it into my head that maybe we'd…" His voice lowered a notch. "I thought we just might get married."

"I see. So were you aware of her relationship with Doctor Trent?"

"Not at all."

"When she broke up with you, did she tell you she was pregnant with your child?"

"No. She didn't think I deserved to know."

"Objection," Jill Dawn interrupted. "Opinion, not fact."

"Sustained," Judge WP agreed. "Please rephrase your reply, Mr. Skye."

He flinched and said, slowly, "I suppose the short answer is no, then."

"How did you find out about Willow's birth?"

"I bumped into a few villagers at one point. People who used to stop by Forget-Me-Not from time to time, you know? People talk. I heard about it, and I…well, I did the math. I know how long it takes for a baby to be born. And I remembered the night we shared well enough to put two and two together."

"Skye, I am sure many people in this courtroom are wondering." Ms. Monett put her hand on the stand, her eyes flashing in the most terrifying way. "Why? Why did you kidnap your baby daughter, when you had no home? No job? No mother to raise her? Why did you do it?"

Skye knew his answer. He knew his role down pat: his script, his lines, his mannerisms. He smoothed his tie; he smiled benignly at the room of curious faces. "Frankly? I have no idea."

Silence.

"No. Idea."

"None. When I think about it," the thief continued, "I don't know why I did it. I've listened to all these fine people speak, and I've had lots of time to think about this, certainly, but I don't know what made me do it."

Maria Monett was ready to kill him.

"So you woke up one morning, decided you'd kidnap a child, and did?"

"No, it wasn't like that."

"Do explain yourself, because that's certainly how it sounds to me and the jury!" Maria didn't care that her voice was higher than it should be, or that her hands had slammed down on the witness stand so hard that her palms throbbed. "Come now. _Something_ must have been going through that mind of yours!"

Train tracks. That's the sound that reverberated throughout Skye's mind as he shut his eyes: the clack of a train on its one-way rail, the smell of the smoke seeping in through the windows, the taste of uncertainty on his tongue. Then that steady beat: the refrain of his heart, slamming harder and harder against his ribs.

_It can't be true. I can't be…be a…_

Fathers represented so much in this world. Constancy. Dependency. Love. Strength. Each word seemed branded behind Skye's eyes, flying by with the landscapes sweeping past the window. Nothing seemed free, not really. Nothing sounded easy.

Of course, what did he know, with his own father dead and gone?

Perhaps it felt strange now. Remembering him. You didn't speak of Skye's father, not in his household. He was the "good-for-nothing," the "debtor," the "foolish man who left us with nothing." You didn't say anything, for if you did, the mother with her hands raw from work would either shout or cry, and Skye had long learned that lesson. "Your father is dead," she'd say.

One day, a dead man came to the door. And with one glimpse, Skye saw what a father both was and wasn't: a drifter, suitcase in hand, scraggly beard and eyes uncertain with hope. "My boy," he'd wheezed to the child. "My little son."

Then she'd interrupted, face iron and cold. "Get the hell out of here. He's not your son."

"But he's not dead," Skye had insisted in his high boy's voice. "Don't you see, Mommy? He's—"

"He's dead to me and you now." The door slammed. The lock clicked.

Silence. Years and years of silence.

"Have you…ever wanted something?" Skye spoke finally.

Ms. Monett blinked; Ms. Dawn stood up, preparing to object.

"Are you referring to Willow?"

"I'm referring to anything." He paused. "More abstractly, though. Haven't you ever…wanted to be something that you're not? Or the chance to be something better than you are?"

"Objection. Your Honor, theories have no place in the courtroom, especially in witness testimony."

"My witness is only trying to give an explanation for his behavior," Ms. Monett countered. "I believe the jury would find his thought process beneficial in their final decision."

"I have to say, I'm curious myself," Judge WP admitted. "Go ahead, Mr. Skye. You're safe…for now."

"What did you intend to become when you kidnapped Willow, Skye?" Ms. Monett asked.

He stared at Claire for a moment, and he tried to recall the spark of love he'd once felt at her very name. Nothing came. "I knew that I was a father. And I didn't want to be like mine. I didn't want to be dead to my baby girl."

"So your paternal instincts led you to take her?"

"Yes."

"And your knowledge of Claire's emotionally imbalanced state?"

Maria's voice hardened here: _fictional or not, this is your final answer. _Skye cleared his mind for a moment, tried to force his feelings to the corners of his mind. This woman was a stranger to him now. This beaten creature, bruised and cheated by time, could never have been the nymph who'd haunted his dreams.

Yet.

He could see, quite clearly now, that night at the jail. The tears had been real then; the screams had been more than just words; the threats had been desperate, furious, afraid all at once. All the words ran together now, and the memories started to tangle upon one another—Gwen running from the stand, Claire sobbing in the courtroom, and the jail, oh, the jailer of hell's gates awaiting him.

"_It meant nothing, Skye. I can't be with someone like you. You know that. I need…dependency, responsibility, honesty. You're not the marrying type. I could never marry you."_

"I didn't know." The thief shook his head, and the handcuffs sunk into his lap with his heart. "I never knew any of it. I thought she was perfect, Ms. Monett. I took baby Willow for my own reasons. Selfish as they were. I'm…not the Good Samaritan I wish I could be." He did not cry. He did not choke on his confession. He merely set his eyes on Gwen in that courtroom, and finished, "I stole the life I wanted. Claire's past has nothing to do with that, and nothing to do with me. Take that however you want."

_And there. It is finished._


	27. Chapter 27: Metamorphosis

**Note: **Hey, wow, three weeks late, I fail at life. Gah. I am so easily distracted, and I've got this job, guys. It sucks. But hey, I think next chapter will be speedier since it'll be majorly fun to write, which you'll know from the end of this long-belated chappie. It's amazing, though, how much you watch your own characters change in a story. They continue to surprise you, y'know? And that's what makes writing them so incredible. :)

_**Chapter Twenty-Seven: **__Metamorphosis_

When do our mistakes happen? There has to be a starting point, somewhere—a path connecting each little nuance in our lives to lead to that one fault line. Perhaps it was a father's departure. A girl's misguided passion. A boy's lonely heart. Could you name a thousand of those things, and still never find an answer?

Skye thought so.

He didn't know Jill Dawn. Honestly, he didn't have to; the brunette had already sized him up and down, found him lacking, and planned to drill his pathetic existence into the ground. Strangely, knowing that made him calm. Empty. Unfeeling.

"Mr. Skye. Is it true that during your testimony just now, you've confessed to kidnapping Willow?"

"I'd say yes."

"And yet you're pleading Not Guilty?"

"That is correct."

Jill smirked; somehow she appeared older than Jack had been, more jaded by the world. "So how, do you figure, does it help you to tell the jury exactly the opposite of that—that you did in fact kidnap her?"

"I'm being honest."

"No, you're not. If you were honest, you would ask for a ruling that matched your claim."

"I—" The thief lowered his eyes. "I suppose," he murmured, "that would sound logical to you, wouldn't it?"

"But not to you?"

"I believe my crime doesn't warrant that…extreme…sort of sentence."

"Yet you've committed a crime, Mr. Skye. There is no denying of this fact. It doesn't matter if you blame your father, Ms. Claire's past, your paternal compassion, any of it. It cannot and will not change the simple truth that you stole this baby, who did not belong to you by law, and came into this courtroom expecting the world to turn a blind eye."

He looked up at her from behind long silver bangs, eyes dull. Every fact of reality hit him with a sickening thud, and yet Skye could swear he'd never felt so numb. "I expect the world to understand," he clarified.

"I think the world understands better than you seem to. You have no real reason for kidnapping the child except for spiting Doctor Trent and his wife; except wondering if you could be a decent father; except selfishness, really." She whirled on him, ponytail swaying, and pointed. "You've admitted to this. It is on court records."

"I know that."

"So why the Not Guilty?"

Why? Skye shut his eyes; oh God, he could think of a thousand reasons why. To still see that baby girl smile. To be able to hold Gwen close and apologize for all those tears. To walk freely in sunlight. To…well, to live.

The better question was why not, really.

"I see. Silence." Jill sighed. "You expect the jury to release you on feelings of pity and sentiment. But isn't it fair, Mr. Skye, to say that Claire deserves the benefit of these emotions, not yourself? You made yourself a victim. But don't forget—you made her a victim, first." Her eyes hardened. "Can you deny that?"

"I can," Skye whispered. "But I won't."

"Well. The prosecution rests."

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You were brought to this courtroom expecting to handle a case about a kidnapping, and I'm sure that's exactly what Ms. Jill Dawn will say in her closing. Our country's laws state clearly that yes, taking a child without proper custody is kidnapping. Has Skye the Phantom Thief done this? He himself gave you his answer. But here is the side of the story that the law does not give.

"Convicting Skye the Phantom Thief protects no one. Convicting Skye the Phantom Thief robs a little girl of even the _possibility_ of being close with her true father. Convicting Skye the Phantom Thief merely feeds a mother's need for justice, and isn't taking this child from him justice enough?

"The law states things in clear lines. However, what you the jury do is not required to follow those lines alone. Ask yourselves. Is putting this man behind bars, a man so humbled that he'd tell the damning truth in this courtroom, truly the purpose of your being here today? No one is asking you to give him that baby girl. This trial is not about custody. This trial is about how deserving this man is of the punishment you're ready to place upon him. Remember: you twelve will leave this courtroom and enter into your normal lives easily enough. However, the verdict you choose will decide the rest of Skye's life. Yes, Skye committed a crime. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, tell me, how much does one impulsive crime deserve?" Maria paused and gave them one single glance. "Decide wisely."

* * *

"For the past two seasons, Skye the Phantom Thief has lived free from blame. For the past twenty-two years of his _life_, he's lived free from repercussions, period. Ms. Monett has said to you just now that his crime may not warrant punishment. Ask yourselves, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, whether one act of drunk driving warrants arrest. Now ask yourselves that when it results in a car crash and an innocent death. Same crime, different outcome. Laws exist for a reason: breaking them can result in breaking more than order.

"If you let Skye the Phantom Thief leave this courtroom on a cloud of pity and well-meaning kindness, I want you to imagine his future. There will be a custody trial, no doubt. And assuming that jury is just as forgiving as you may choose to be, Willow will once again be taken from her parents to be with a man who felt his blood gave him the right to play God. He could have tried the law system; he could have merely asked Ms. Claire to visit his baby girl. This is a man who has no respect for the workings of society; this is a man who feels society should work around him."

Ms. Dawn took in a breath and pointed to the audience.

"If this were your child, here, would you want to see her kidnapper go free? If Willow were your baby girl and you woke up to see her taken, would you want to see him walk through these doors? Skye admits to making a mistake. However, he knew the possible consequences before going in. This is not a red-faced young boy standing before you; this is a full-grown man who knows he freely and willingly broke the law. Would you trust him with that freedom once more?"

* * *

Hammers beat within Gwen's head, all sounds around her deafening and ungodly loud. She'd put on her makeup so carefully today, and she could already feel it wear away as sweat wet her brow. Like a stone she remained unmoving, long after Skye had left the courtroom with his lawyer, after all those people she barely knew had shoved their ways back into their simple lives.

She'd never be able to do that. She knew that, now.

The closing statements had been grand, well-crafted, perfectly poised. They'd all been silence to her—angry, clamorous silence after Skye's testimony. Doug shook her by the shoulder. "Hey, missy? You ready to go?"

Her eyes itched. Bringing her sleeve up, she forced away all the moisture she'd forgotten laid there and fought to remember how to use her legs. "Why?" she choked out finally. "Uncle Doug, why does life work like this? It's so…unfair."

"Because it's life, Gwen." He squeezed her tight, a little girl again, and ruffled her hair. "And that's just why it can't be fair, you understand?"

"No. I don't."

"Well, I wish I could tell you that you will in time, but I'd be lying, wouldn't I?"

"They're going to say he's guilty," she whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

Doug hesitated. "No, and neither do you."

"I can feel it. In here." She clutched her chest and shut her eyes. "They don't care about him, they just see a criminal, and that's all they'll ever see. And there's nothing I could do to change that."

"Well, no, there's nothing at all."

"But I should've been able to say something on that stand! I should've been able to convince them—"

"—but you didn't, and honestly, you probably couldn't have." He held up her chin and looked at her with kind eyes. "Gwen. You love him. That alone makes them wary of you."

"But because I love him, they should listen," the blonde insisted.

"It is what it is, Gwen. Come along, now, I'm gonna cook you a big dinner and you're gonna get a good night's sleep and we're just…gonna calm down a bit, okay?"

He tried, Uncle Doug, Gwen had to give him that. She just wished she could say the same for herself.

* * *

Words are like feathers. Once you throw them on the breeze, they float away, and it's hard as can be to take them back into your mouth. Nami had begun to learn this, just when she should have learned her lesson long ago.

"_I love you_." Who said those things, unless they meant them? And if she meant them, then…well. Then what?

How had she come here, after all this time? What exactly had prompted her to learn how she fit perfectly in this musician's arms, to become addicted to the taste of his lips on her own? Three little words had put this spell upon her. Three stupid, idiotic, insignificant words.

"So. What happens now?"

"Whatever you want to happen."

Her pulse pounded; her breath drew in slow. "And if I don't know that?"

"Then we learn as we go along."

They'd left the mountain flushed and wide awake. How, Nami kept asking herself, did she wind up here? Was there an answer at all for his arm being around her now? No. She didn't fall in love, she didn't believe in it, and she—she was in love, now, simply put.

So now what?

Her eyes stole to the feather in his pocket once more. "Never say never," she muttered to herself.

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

* * *

Claire had forgotten the soft weight of a baby's head on her arm. She looked to the window with dry, dull eyes; she had forgotten the refrain to that lullaby Willow had loved. She couldn't recall where she'd put that one doll the baby had cradled. She couldn't tell you which baby food she preferred. Funny, how memory works. It all unravels so quickly.

And yet, it returns so soon.

"It's taking them all night, Ms. Dawn says."

"Do you plan to stay up with them?" The doctor closed his book and turned to see his wife, silent as she stroked her baby's head. "Worrying won't do you good. You ought to sleep."

"I can't. Not now."

"You want to hear them say it."

"Whether or not they say it, he's guilty, and they all know it."

Trent sighed. One hand fiddled with his reading glasses while the other turned to the lamp, letting darkness enter the room once more. "Either way, Claire, Willow is here, and that's the important thing."

"I know. But it's not the only thing."

"Their choice reflects no judgment on you, you know."

"So you say."

"If they find him Not Guilty, it's an act of mercy on their part, not a finger pointed at you."

"But a finger is pointed. And honestly, Trent, we know what they think of me." Her voice drew to a whisper. "More importantly, I know." She pressed her lips to Willow's brow and shut her eyes. Trent had come behind her like a shadow to hold her close, and she did not cry, she did not say a word, just let him hold her like that for a while. Time passed and somehow, Claire discovered with a little smile, three little heartbeats had become in synch with the hours: all in perfect harmony as one.

* * *

"Evening." She smiled up at him shyly, basket held aloft, and felt her cheeks blossom with shame. "I'm, uh, hoping to get a word in. Or just 'in' at all."

Bob had expected her. To be honest, it did his poor heart a good deal of hurt to see Gwen standing there like that: piteous and fragile. Her ponytail had almost slipped out from its tie, and those eyes seemed so downcast, had lost so much luster. "Well. I'm afraid I can't let you give him that."

"Why not?" she choked out.

"Because I didn't see you cook it." Bob felt the guilt more acutely now; her expression looked so _pained_. "Ah, hell, Gwen, I don't make these rules. There might be a key in there or something."

"And where would I get a key?!" she demanded. "I've known you eighteen years, Bob! I just want to give him a stupid cake and you…no, never mind, I shouldn't have bothered." She shut her eyes. "Well, you eat it. Don't let it go to waste, okay?"

The food was shoved into his hands violently, and Gwen began to stomp off, eyes wet. "Wait. Wait a second, now. Hold on." He held her back with just the lightest grip, sighing. "I said you couldn't give him the food. I didn't say you couldn't see him."

"So I can talk to him?" Gwen murmured, hope shining through.

"Frankly, you can talk with him all night if you want to. I won't tell a soul."

* * *

Eyes open. Eyes shut. Either way, the room remained dark, and Skye couldn't tell you how long he'd been lying in those four walls. He wanted to sleep, but sleep made time pass, and no curiosity this morbid should ever be satisfied. To live or to be imprisoned. To be free or to learn to let your soul die.

Funny how, now, Skye had finally got something worth losing, right when reality had decided to catch up with him.

"Hey there."

The words fell soft like raindrops on his ears. A silhouette inched forward, and a sliver of light revealed amber eyes and a little red smile. Gwen's arms were folded tight round her, and her chest heaved up and down with a fear Skye couldn't name but knew all too well.

"What are you doing here?" he breathed.

"I needed to see you. Tonight." She cast a look at the cuffs on his hands and swallowed. Self-conscious, he pulled them away from her sight. "I can't…I can't imagine what's about to happen to you."

"Then don't."

She bit back a wry grin. "If only it were that easy. Oh, Skye, I wish it were that easy." Her head pounded, and she held her brow with cold, clammy hands. Everything shook, and it killed Skye to know he couldn't comfort that girl's crying spirit. "I've thought so much about this. I know what you did results in consequences, and I know that girls like me move on after boys like you. But…knowing and feeling…they don't go hand-in-hand. Not really."

A creak sounded outside the window and they both jumped, tensing at the night. Then silence returned, Gwen wiped her eyes, and Skye tried so hard to memorize the look on her face while he still could. "If I'd known, in the beginning, how this would hurt you, I'd never have done it at all."

Unexpected and simple, Skye heard the words form on his lips, and strangely they felt right. Yes. If he could go back, and do it all again, for once he didn't see the same mistakes taking place. Did he love Willow? God, yes. But had Willow chosen to love him as Gwen had?

Had Willow been hurt by his actions at all?

He wanted to break those damn bars. He wanted to pull Gwen close, never let her go, never remember any of this nonsense that his stupid actions had produced. As always, he wanted to run away. Or was it finally running toward?

"Whatever happens tomorrow, know that I'm a fool, Gwen. Know that none of this was worth it, none of it at all, if I never get to see you again." The words were running over each other with emotion; oh, God, words weren't enough, he wanted to brush away those fears with his hands. "I lied to you so much, I know I did, but I love you, and I did love you, and I wish with all my being that I could have a chance to keep loving you." She didn't even look at him now, and he felt himself beginning to tremble as well in this uncertainty and turmoil. "I don't deserve that chance. And I don't expect it."

Gwen weighed each word with silence. It was then Skye noticed the movement of her hands, turning and turning as something bright glimmered on her fingers. "You deserve that chance," she whispered. "In fact, I'd say…you deserve more than that chance." She began to pace the cell's doorway, and her clear voice continued, "That courtroom didn't see what I saw these two seasons. And true, it wasn't all of you I saw, but I saw enough to know you for what you are. I saw how you held that child, I saw how you looked at her and at me, I…felt…how deeply you loved." Her hands closed into fists, and Skye strained his eyes further, trying to see in the night. "Damn it all, if loving someone is a crime, yes, go to that jail tomorrow. If wanting to love your child is a sin, sure, go rot in there. You made mistakes, okay, fine, who hasn't? That's _human_," Gwen snapped. "But to admit them in front of the people who can end your future and your freedom? No. That's not human." She squeezed her eyes shut. "No. That's divine. And so help me, it will _not_ be the reason they choose to send you to that hellhole."

Her boots clacked on the stone and he heard a vague click, something so faint that it shouldn't have set his heart racing. "Gwen?" No. No, she didn't, she wasn't, where was Bob? Desperately the thief stole to the door, and only then did he see it cracking wide, light pouring in from behind Gwen in angelic beams. "Gwen? What are you doing?"

The silhouette smiled at him, pitch black and mysterious as any shadow. To the side, he could see Bob lying on the ground, a strange expression on his face and bits of cake left on his lips. "We don't have much time until he wakes up. Skye, darling," Gwen began, stealing towards him and kissing him fiercely, "I'm kidnapping you."


	28. Chapter 28: Flight

**Note: **Oh my gosh. It ends here, guys. It ends here and I couldn't be happier. xD I'm sorry it took me so long but I wanted to piece how to finish this in my mind and I also had lots and lots of responsibilities in real life keeping me away from this. But know that I worked very hard on this, guys, and that I am just so happy with this story. It's my favorite yet, I have to say. Thank you for the support.

_**Chapter Twenty-Eight: **__Flight_

"Gwen, what did you do? Gwen. Stop." Her fingers had already begun working on his cuffs, and Skye could feel his heart racing, racing, ready to crash on this cold hard floor… "Gwen, damn it, stop for a moment."

She turned sharply at his tone. "Listen. The drug in the cake won't last long. The faster I free you, the better. Quit struggling."

Oh, Lord, since when had this sweet and innocent girl been turned into a creature of deceit for his sake? He shuddered at the sight of Bob on the floor; it seemed so out of place in his mind. "How long have you planned this?" he whispered.

"Not long. Like some people, I can act on impulse." The lock snapped, and Gwen crowed in triumph. "There, now! Isn't that better?" Struck dumb, Skye rubbed his wrists and stared at his handcuffs on the ground. Almost immediately after he felt her body pressed into his, and her soft delicate hands stroking his reddened and scarred ones. "We can go anywhere in the world. I don't care, honestly, I don't."

"You don't know what you're doing," he murmured, pulling away.

"I'm _saving_ you. You were in that courtroom, weren't you?" Gwen demanded. "You saw their faces. You know what they'd have ruled."

"Still, this is—"

"Wrong?" The blonde shook her head. "No, this is the only right thing I can think of. And what is wrong, anyway? If sending you to prison isn't wrong, I don't know what is."

To her utter disbelief, he'd backed into a corner, and Gwen had to fight to keep herself where she stood instead of running after him. "This isn't what I wanted," Skye spoke finally.

"So what do you want?" Gwen hissed. "You wanna go to prison? Please, enlighten me, am I keeping you away from the hell you've always wanted? Skye, we don't have time for you to be stupid. Run away with me. God, just _do_ it."

"I don't—"

"I'm not interested in what you don't want to do. I'm interested in what you do want to do." The calm had unraveled within her and Gwen couldn't hold herself back any longer as she ran over and shook Skye with frantic grip. "Skye, don't you want to be with me? Don't you want to be free? Just this once in your life, please, run away again. Don't you love me?"

"Gwen…"

"Don't you?!" she sobbed, shaking him all the harder. "If you love me, then please, do this!"

"But don't you see?" She trembled as he cupped her chin in his hands. Blinking back angry tears, her red eyes met his calm steady blue, and he murmured, "The reason I can't…is precisely because I love you."

"And what kind of logic is that? Running off to some jail to prove something I don't even care about, that shows you love me?!"

"No, Gwen. See, if we walk out those doors," the thief continued, level, "then all we'll ever be is criminals. I say _we_, Gwen, because doing that would bring you just as low as me. And I don't want you to go through anything like this because of me."

"Let me be selfish," she whispered.

"Then be selfish, and let me go. Take your freedom and run with it."

"But I love you! Don't you see, I _love_ you!" Another kiss desperately thrown at his lips; and another agonizing silence. "I don't want to be free."

"Coincidentally, neither do I, if all I'm doing is imprisoning you."

"This isn't about me," Gwen insisted. "It's about _you_. I don't care about me, I want you to be safe, I want you to keep on living in the sunlight, I want you to laugh and to smile and to love and be…be _you_."

"And what makes you think," Skye answered, "that I want any less for you?"

A little hiccup formed in her throat, and Skye held her head against his chest, stroking that bowed head as she fought for words. "I want both of us to be happy," she managed.

"I know."

"I just…I want that so badly."

"I know, Gwen. I know."

"And I feel so helpless!" she cried, voice breaking. "I want to stop this, I want it all to _stop_, and I want things to have never changed between us, I wish that stupid detective had never come at all, that we could go back and do this over and over and over—"

"Gwen…"

"—and over, and over, until none of it ever mattered, because I'd love you, and you'd love me, and dammit we'd be like everyone else." Furiously she wiped at her eyes, and he kissed her forehead softly, their breathing slow but heartbeats swift. "I don't want to lose you," she whispered. "I don't want them to take you…_there_."

"You're not losing me if you choose to be the one who lets me go."

"But. Still." Eyes glistening, Gwen lifted her head only to study him in bewilderment. "You're not going to leave with me, are you? No matter what I say."

A delicate sigh left his lips and he shook his head. "No."

"I can't change your mind." A fact, not a question.

"You can't do anything."

It's funny, growing up. When Gwen had been a child, she'd believed in fairies and wishing stars and singlehandedly changing the world; the universe was full of magic and possibilities. So what was becoming an adult, then? Accepting a harsh reality? Or, more accurately, learning what little power you truly have?

The transition, Gwen thought bitterly to herself, was learning to accept that.

"I can do one thing," Gwen murmured. Slowly she leaned in to catch his mouth in her own, and tenderly she poured all the love and tears she'd harbored into that one moment, their breathing as one. It didn't matter how long it lasted, not now. And compared to actions, words seemed so powerless and futile. It was as the tears slipped down both their cheeks that finally they pulled away, and Gwen tried to smile. "Tonight? Can I still hold on, just one last time?"

Bob didn't quite understand how, when he awoke, the jail door was wide open, the handcuffs on the ground, and Gwen and Skye wrapped in each others' arms with tearstained cheeks. He almost asked why.

But then again, eighteen years was a long friendship indeed, and that bond felt stronger than any law.

* * *

Perhaps they'd always known they'd find themselves here. It didn't matter how they began, or just how hard they'd struggled to wind up any place else, but somehow Doctor Trent couldn't say he regretted a single moment of it. He'd had no dreams when he'd married Claire; no glossy, rosy view of their marriage, and yet he'd never thought it'd fall so hard so fast. Bonds were fragile. Love was only as binding as a spider's web. And yet, when it broke, you could reweave it into something more intricate and even stronger than before.

"No matter the verdict," Trent whispered into her ear, "this isn't about us. Either way, we're the winners here."

She merely squeezed his hand.

"We're bound to win this," Jill Dawn stated matter-of-factly. "If we don't, it'll be due to silly little feelings clouding up the jury's judgment. They will know, all of them, who was guilty that day."

A few rows back, Nami Stone flipped a coin and rolled her eyes. "See? Heads. Meaning I can smoke my cigarette."

"So if I told you I wanted to jump off a bridge, and you said not to, it'd be okay for me to say 'hey, why don't we just flip a coin' then?"

"Look, you said you wanted to see the verdict. Stop acting like you're the one who dragged me here."

He laughed and tipped back that ridiculous green hat. "Well, it's one way to keep you from worrying. Who you think is going to win?"

"There are winners and losers here?" she remarked dryly. "As far as I could tell, it was about survivors and casualties."

"So this is a war?"

"Might as well be."

Silence descended as four familiar figures entered. The first was a strong, familiar bodyguard, and beside him a frail and tired girl, hand held tightly to the thief all had come to see. There was determination in those glassy eyes, and Claire shivered, somehow affected by their resolve. And of course, Maria Monett had followed them all, fixed on that still-closed door.

"Ms. Dawn."

Maria's voice was feathery, fine. "You wish to speak with me?" Jill asked.

"We have a request."

"Oh?"

"My client," Maria continued, level, "would like to plead guilty."

Stunned, the attorney fumbled for words, then managed, "It's a little late in the game to switch pleas."

"We're willing to make you an offer."

"Well, we're—"

"Interested," Trent spoke suddenly. Claire turned to him, wide-eyed, and he patted her hand reassuringly. "What do you want?"

"My client does not wish to attend prison—"

Jill snorted; who the hell wanted to?

"—but respects the family's right to keep him at distance, and requests doing community service."

"Picking up cans on the side of the road does not get a man forgiven for kidnapping," Jill deadpanned.

"He also, I'd like to add," Maria continued, unperturbed, "requests house arrest for as long a time as you see fit."

"A house?" Clare stammered. "He doesn't have one."

"But I do," Gwen announced.

Claire sucked in a deep breath; Trent smiled her way. "Well, I think it's a fair offer. What do you think, darling?"

"Willow." Her blue eyes afire, she turned to see Skye face-to-face. "You may be her father, but I will not let you free if you're only going to come after my baby girl."

"My client will not pursue paternity."

"You can't guarantee that," Claire snapped.

Helplessly, Maria turned to Jill, who looked away. "A man's life is in the balance here."

"So is my child's."

"And mine," Trent added with a sigh. In a single, dignified motion, Trent placed his hands in his pocket to bring forth a single slip of paper. "Read this, Claire. I don't think he's going to be asking for custody, not at all."

The words swam before Claire's eyes; shaking, she dropped the paper and let it flutter to the ground. "Wh-what is this?" she whispered.

Jill bent down to lift it and squinted at the font. "Good God." Her eyes flashed as she faced the doctor. "How long have you known about this?!"

"A few days. Not long at all."

"We could've submitted this as evidence against him!"

"Which is why," Trent murmured, "I just couldn't do it."

"May I ask what all this commotion is about?" Maria interjected.

All three exchanged looks. "According to a DNA test I had conducted," Trent spoke, level, "Willow isn't Skye's child at all. We were all wrong. In fact, she really is mine." Claire's hands flew to her mouth, and Trent smiled. "And no jury in the world would take Willow away from us."

"Damn you. Keeping away that crucial information." Jill paced the room in a rage, and finally snapped, "How could you let everyone do this? How could you just let the whole courtroom be treated like a circus?"

"Because everyone makes mistakes. And as long as I have my daughter, I don't care what happens to Mr. Skye the Phantom Thief."

A heavy cloud of understanding settled on the group, and Maria swallowed. "So the papers. Will you sign?"

"I have every intention of doing so," Trent announced. He turned to his wife. "But it's not my right to do that."

With a child's shyness, Claire let the pen settle in her hand. _He's hurt you. _Her eyes flitted up to meet Skye's, and she vaguely recalled that thrill those crystal eyes had placed her under so many moons ago. _He's ripped you apart like no one else could. _Her fingers shook now; the ink was spilling. _But maybe…it's time to let it go._

Never before, she decided, had her name ever looked so beautiful upon a page.

* * *

If her mother could see her that day, Gwen knew she'd tell her she looked beautiful. It wasn't the dress that wrapped about her like a soft, feathery cloud, or the way the roses in her hair gave her the air of a May Flower Queen. Sometimes beauty had nothing to do with any of that at all, and Gwen knew it was this glow inside her that truly made her shine.

She'd stepped out in shy, timid steps, and Doug held onto her arm as if her whole life depended on it. The heels scuffed against the wood of the inn floor, and it didn't matter at all, not one bit. On either side, chairs had been propped up to form an aisle of sorts, and familiar faces—and some only vaguely familiar—greeted her as she passed on by, a vision in white and red. Eve was crying, and Katie, well, Katie could barely contain her excitement.

In the end, Gwen hadn't expected any of it.

And yet, now, she didn't know how she couldn't have.

Sometimes she cried, looking back, at all those painful trials and the ugly truths that dragged her down. Gwen didn't pretend she'd known when she would grow up. Yet at the same time, she knew it'd happened, that she'd had no choice but to let it happen. And growing up means letting yourself get hurt, sometimes.

But then, looking into Skye's clear blue eyes, he knew that better than she did, didn't he?

He had no ring to give her, but the one that Doug had quietly nudged his way. He had no wealth, no possessions, no home, no freedom. He was a caged bird who only knew how to fly. But even caged birds sing. And what was freedom, anyway, but the ability to choose your own fate?

What was wrong with having the most wonderful fate in the world forced upon you?

"We are gathered here today," Judge W.P. announced, "to celebrate the marriage of Skye the Phantom Thief, and Miss Gwen of Flowerbud."

His eyes met hers, and before they even spoke, they knew the answers would be "I do, I do, I do."

* * *

_Just Before Curtains Close…_

* * *

Dear Maria Monett,

I heard of your recent "victory." I must admit, I am surprisingly impressed with your skills, despite your humble beginnings. My firm is looking for some help and to my astonishment I find myself recommending you. I understand that defense is more your style, but you have a surprisingly aggressive approach that you will find is better suited to prosecution. Besides, I have no doubt you could use a little more excitement.

Sincerely,

Jack O'Neil

PS: I am hoping you will ignore the fact that you consider me the epitome of a self-serving bastard long enough to have a cup of coffee with me and talk about this.

PSS: Unless you are a tea person.

* * *

To Miss Gina Aires:

Congratulations. Whatever karma you threw at me worked. I'm engaged to Gustafa and I very well expect you to be my maid-of-honor. The wedding is expected to be five minutes long and if you miss a single one of those minutes I fully intend to never write you again.

Your former roommate,

Nami Stone

PS: Thank you for the weatherwoman job, but I have decided to go in a direction better suited for my talents.

PPS: And I was referring to songwriting, not cornering people with guns.

* * *

Greetings Doctor Trent and family!

The clinic has finally been revamped, and I am very happy to report that there is now room for both you and your beautiful baby girl to live in the upstairs. I will miss you both very much, but I am very happy about my new job in Flowerbud with Gina and her fiancé, Dr. Alex. Everything is going off to quite a smooth start, and I hope things go just as smoothly for you. At the very least, I know you will get to spend quite a bit more time together, and I know the change of scenery will do you all good.

Many blessings,

Elli

* * *

Gwen, how's it going?

Hey, I know you've been a bit busy, what with your new status as a married lady n'all, but I was thinkin', see Tina and I are starting a ranch and I reckon I'd be honored if you were one of our partners. Horseraisin', horseridin', and time with friends—nothing better than that, eh? Only downside being you'd have to leave the husband for a bit. But something tells me he'd want you to go.

Think about it.

Bob

* * *

Dear Diary,

Sometimes I pretend that I'm a princess. And I know it's totally stupid and little kiddish of me, but I pretend that there's this evil dragon and I'm screaming for help, and then swoop! There comes the prince of my dreams to carry me away, and oh my gosh, you have no idea how amazing just thinking about that feels. But I'm only twelve, and what gorgeous prince bothers to save a girl who's gawky and gangly and pretty much ew?

Kate says I'm just dreaming because there's no cute guys in Mineral Town. Well fine, maybe if Stu and May weren't all kissy-kissy I'd be a little luckier. But so what. Twelve isn't a bad age. And I'm not so bad-looking. Most princesses have golden hair, don't they?

Daddy says I'm his princess, and that actually makes me really happy. I don't think I'd want to marry a prince exactly like my daddy, though. I guess it's the dark hair, I always pictured something softer. Okay…for real? I've dreamed about what my prince looks like.

Don't laugh at me, diary. But he's got the most…ohmygoshamazing blue eyes. And there's this soft, kind look in them, except he's totally trying to hide that. And his hair is just this gorgeous shade of silver, like I didn't think a color like that could exist. He's beautiful, and he's holding me, and he's calling me beautiful, too.

It feels almost real, diary. Is that pathetic? I think it's pathetic. That's why I don't tell Mom about it.

But you know what I think? I think princes are real. I really, truly do. It's just sometimes hard to find them.

Your best friend,

Willow.

* * *

_The End_

* * *

**Ending Notes: **First of all, thank you to all readers and reviewers; the support I've gotten for this fic is just mindboggling and very, very much appreciated. I hope the end wasn't too contrived, and I hope it left you all as satisfied as I feel right this very moment.

Whether you reviewed or not, thank you for reading this. And thank you for bothering to follow my twists and turns, my sometimes confused usage of the third person, and my melodramatic style. More importantly, thank you for your thoughts, observations, and the honor of getting the gears in your minds going.

I don't know if I'll try another long-fic like this again. I'm starting to want to do original fiction desperately, and finishing here…well I think I like leaving it at this.

So thank you, all of you, and happy writing.

--Scarlet


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